THE  STUDENTS'   HANDY  EDITION. 


THE   WORKS 

OF 

SHAKESPEARE 

THE  TEXT  CAREFULLY  RESTORED  ACCORDING  TO 

THE  FIRST  EDITIONS;  WITH  INTRODUCTIONS, 

NOTES  ORIGINAL  AND  SELECTED,  AND 

A  LIFE  OF  THE  POET  ; 

BY   THE 

REV.  H.  N.  HUDSON,  A.M. 

REVISED  EDITION,   WITH   ADDITIONAL  NOTES. 


IN  TWELVE  VOLUMES. 

VOL.  I. 


BOSTON: 

ESTES     AND     LAURIAT, 

301  WASHINGTON  STREET. 


Entered  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1871,  by 

KOYE8,   HOLMES,   AND    COMPANY, 
In  the  Office  of  the  Librarian  ot  Congress  at  Washington. 

Copyright,  1881, 
BY  ESTKS  AND  LAUKIAT. 


UNIVERSITY  PRESS: 
JOHN  Wasos  AND  Son,  CAMBRIDGE. 


SRLi 
URL 

PREFACE  pit 


THE     REVISED    EDITION. 


IT  is  now  about  twenty-one  years  since  this  edition 
of  SHAKESPEARE'S  WORKS  was  begun.  The  Edi- 
tor had  good  reasons  for  this  delay ;  for,  besides  that 
he  was  necessarily  subject  to  divers  interruptions, 
being  compelled  to  do  a  good  deal  of  other  work,  the 
task  has  proved  a  much  longer  and  harder  one  than 
he  had  anticipated.  But  the  edition  is  at  length 
finished ;  and  the  editor  dismisses  his  labours  to  the 
public  with  a  mixture  of  pleasure  and  regret ;  — 
pleasure,  that  his  obligation  to  the  publishers  is  now 
discharged ;  regret,  that  the  serene  and  tranquil  de- 
lights of  the  task  are  to  be  no  longer  his  save  as  a 
remembered  experience. 

As  for  the  reasons  which  led  to  this  edition  of 
Shakespeare,  perhaps  it  were  as  well  to  leave  them 
to  be  gathered  from  the  manner  of  the  performance ; 
but  it  is  thought  best  to  give  a  brief  statement  of 
them,  as  this  may  serve  in  some  measure  to  unfold 
the  plan  of  the  work. 

The  celebrated  Chiswick  edition,  on  which  this  is 
partly  modelled,  was  published  in  1826,  and  has  for 
some  time  been  out  of  print.  In  size  of  volume,  in 


IV  PREFACE    TO    THE    REVISED    EDITION. 

type,  style  of  execution,  aud  adaptedness  to  the  wants 
of  both  the  scholar  and  the  general  reader,  it  pre- 
sented a  combination  of  advantages  possessed  by  no 
other  edition  at  the  time  of  its  appearance.  The 
text,  however,  abounds  in  corruptions  introduced  by 
preceding  editors  under  the  name  of  corrections 
Of  the  number  and  nature  of  these  no  adequate  idea 
can  be  formed  but  on  a  close  comparison,  line  by 
line,  and  word  by  word,  with  the  original  editions. 

The  Chiswick  Shakespeare  has  never  been  re- 
printed in  this  country.  For  putting  forth  an  Amer- 
ican edition  retaining  the  advantages  of  that  without 
its  defects,  no  apology,  it  is  presumed,  will  be  thought 
needful.  How  far  those  advantages  are  retained  hi 
this  edition,  will  appear  upon  a  very  slight  compari- 
son :  how  far  those  defects  have  been  removed,  the 
Editor  may  be  allowed  to  say  that  no  little  study  and 
examination  will  be  required  to  the  forming  of  a 
right  judgment. 

Until  the  present,  there  has  been  no  American 
edition  of  Shakespeare  proceeding  upon  a  fresh  re- 
visal  and  collation  of  the  text  with  the  original  copies. 
So  that,  properly  speaking,  this  is  the  first  time  the 
Poet's  text  has  been  edited  in  this  country.  Here  it 
has  been  ascertained  from  the  primitive  sources ;  the 
Editor  having,  in  this  respect,  taken  nothing  upou 
hearsay,  nor  rested  with  any  thing  short  of  a  con- 
tinual reference  to  the  first  editions.  By  this  process, 
the  Editor  has  detected  and  restored  a  few  original 
readings  which  appear  to  have  escaped  all  the  other 
modern  editors.  But,  notwithstanding  all  the  care 


PREFACE    TO    THE    REVISED    EDITION.  V 

and  vigilance  he  could  use,  some  things,  as  might  be 
expected,  escaped  his  eye  in  the  original  stereotyping 
of  the  text.  Esteeming  nothing  unimportant  on 
this  score,  however  small  and  trivial  it  might  appear, 
he  has  since  made,  with  much  care,  a  second  colla- 
tion of  his  text  with  the  originals ;  and  whatever 
oversights  or  inaccuracies  he  could  detect  have  been 
rectified  in  the  plates. 

So  that,  if  a  thorough  revisal  of  every  line,  every 
word,  every  letter,  and  every  point,  with  a  continual 
reference  to  the  original  copies,  be  a  reasonable 
ground  of  confidence,  then  the  reader  may  be  con- 
fidently assured  that  he  will  here  find  the  genuine 
text  of  Shakespeare. 

The  process  of  purification  has  been  rendered 
much  more  difficult,  and  therefore  much  more  neces- 
sary, by  the  mode  in  which  it  was  for  a  long  time 
customary  to  edit  the  Poet's  works.  This  mode  is 
well  exemplified  in  the  case  of  Steevens  and  Malone, 
who  seem  to  have  vied  with  each  other  which  should 
most  enrich  his  edition  with  textual  emendations. 
Both  of  them  had  been  very  good  editors,  but  for 
the  unwarrantable  liberty  with  which  they  reformed 
the  Poet's  text ;  and,  even  as  it  was,  they  undoubt- 
edly rendered  much  valuable  service.  And  the  same 
work,  though  not  always  in  so  great  a  degree,  has 
been  carried  on  by  many  others :  sometimes  the 
alleged  corrections  of  several  editors  have  been 
brought  together,  that  the  advantages  of  them  all 
might  be  combined  and  presented  in  one.  Thus  cor- 
ruptions of  the  text  have  accumulated,  each  successive 


VI  PREFACE    TO    THE    REVISED    EDITION. 

editor  adding  his  own  to  those  of  his  predecessors. 
Nor  were  any  decisive  steps  taken  in  the  way  of  a 
return  to  the  original  text,  till  within  a  very  limited 
period.  The  later  editors,  Knight,  Collier,  and  Ver- 
planck,  to  all  of  whom  this  Editor  is  under  great 
obligations,  have  pretty  effectually  put  a  stop  to  the 
old  mode  of  Shakespearian  editing ;  nor  is  there 
much  reason  to  apprehend  that  any  one  will  now 
venture  upon  a  revival  of  it. 

Of  the  editions  hitherto  printed  in  this  country, 
Verplanck's  is  believed  to  be  the  only  one  that  is  at 
all  free  from  these  accumulated  corruptions.  Adopt 
ing,  for  the  most  part,  the  text  of  Collier  as  published 
in  1842-4,  he  brought  to  the  work,  however,  his  own 
taste  and  judgment,  wherein  he  as  far  surpasses  the 
English  editor  as  he  necessarily  falls  short  of  him 
in  such  external  advantages  as  the  libraries,  public 
and  private,  of  England  alone  can  supply.  And 
Collier's  text  of  1842-4  is  indeed  remarkably  accu- 
rate and  pure :  nor,  perhaps,  can  any  other  man  of 
modern  times  be  named,  to  whom  Shakespearian 
literature  is,  on  the  whole,  so  largely  indebted.  How 
much  he  has  done  need  not  be  dwelt  upon  here,  as 
the  results  thereof  will  be  found  scattered  all  through 
this  edition.  Yet  it  must  be  confessed  that  both  he 
and  Knight,  revolting  from  the  extreme  liberty  of 
preceding  editors,  have  gone  to  the  opposite  extreme 
of  rejecting  many  valuable,  and  some  indispensable 
corrections  of  the  text.  This  excessive,  not  to  say 
slavish  adherence  to  the  old  copies,  often  in  probable, 
sometimes  in  palpable  misprints,  greatly  reduces  th« 


•     PREFACE    TO    THE    REVISED    EDITION.  VT 

value  of  their  editions  for  general  use.  In  this  par- 
ticular, Mr.  Verplanck  has  judiciously  deviated  from 
his  English  standard,  and  his  good  judgment  appears 
equally  in  what  he  adopts  and  in  what  he  rejects. 
Of  the  critical  remarks  that  enrich  his  edition,  it  is 
enough  at  present  to  express  the  belief  that  in  this 
department  he  has  no  rival  in  this  country,  and  will 
not  soon  be  beaten. 

There  is  one  class  of  restorations  which  the  Edi- 
tor hopes  to  be  excused  for  mentioning,  inasmuch  as, 
while  they  are  separately  so  small  as  to  escape  notice, 
the  number  of  them  is  so  great  as  to  be  a  matter  of 
considerable  importance.  Every  one  at  all  conver- 
sant with  the  old  writers  must  be  aware  that  in  their 
use  of  verbs,  participles,  and  participial  adjectives,  the 
termination  ed  generally  made  a  syllable  by  itself. 
This  class  of  words  being  very  numerous,  not  a  little 
variety  and  flexibility  of  language  were  gained  by 
omitting  or  retaining  the  e  at  an  author's  discretion. 
In  Shakespeare's  verse  the  pronouncing  of  ed  as  a 
distinct  syllable  is  very  often  required  by  the  measure : 
yet  all  the  current  texts  of  the  poet  are  utterly  dis 
ordered  in  this  respect,  so  that  the  reader's  ear,  if  it 
be  at  all  sensitive,  is  continually  put  at  odds  with  his 
eye,  and  the  silent  pleasure  of  the  verse  is  marred 
either  by  discords  or  by  watchfulness  against  them. 
Both  forms  often  occur  in  the  same  line  ;  which 
makes  the  distinction  still  more  important  to  be 
marked  hi  the  printing.  Here  is  an  instance: 

"  For  this  they  have  engrossed  and  pil'd  up 
The  canker'd  heaps  of  strange-achieved  gold." 


Vlll  PREFACE    TO    THE    REVISED    EDITION. 

The  same  is  to  be  said  of  verbs  in  the  second  person 
singular,  and  also  of  many  adjectives,  where  the 
ending  est  makes  a  syllable  by  itself,  or  blends  with 
the  preceding  syllable,  according  as  the  e  is  retained 
or  omitted.  In  these  respects,  the  original  editions 
are  printed  with  remarkable  exactness ;  so  that,  for 
keeping  the  Poet's  verse  rightly  in  tune,  there  needs 
but  a  scrupulous  adherence  to  them.  And  the  same 
holds  true,  in  an  equal  degree,  of  his  prose,  which 
has  as  much  variety  in  this  particular  as  his  verse. 
Now,  in  all  the  modern  editions  since  Capell's,  the 
Poet's  usage  in  this  matter  has  been  quite  ignored, 
and  the  rhythm  of  his  prose  (for  good  prose,  no  less 
than  verse,  has  a  rhythm  of  its  own)  thereby  greatly 
marred.  The  present  Editor  has  spent  a  great  deal 
of  care  and  labour  upon  these  small  items  of  restora- 
tion, deeming  it  of  consequence  to  preserve,  as  nearly 
as  might  be,  the  words  and  even  the  syllables  exactly 
as  Shakespeare  wrote  them. 

It  may  be  worth  the  while,  indeed  it  seems  rather 
needful,  to  remark  that  of  the  Poet's  thirty-seven 
dramas  seventeen  were  first  printed,  separately,  in 
quarto  form,  —  all  of  them  but  one,  Othello,  during 
his  life.  Several  of  these  issues,  however,  were  evi- 
dently stolen,  and,  withal,  so  mangled  and  mutilated  in 
the  stealing,  as  to  be  of  little  if  any  real  authority  ; 
though  all  of  them  are  of  more  or  less  value  in  as- 
certaining or  completing  the  text.  The  remaining 
twenty  plays  were  first  printed  in  the  folio  of  1623  ; 
and  in  respect  of  these,  that  edition,  and  the  reprint 
of  it,  under  some  revising  hand,  in  1632,  are  our 
only  authorities  foi  the  text. 


PREFACE   TO    THE    REVISED    EDITION.  IX 

As  to  the  folio  of  1623,  a  great  deal  has  been  said 
on  both  sides  respecting  it.  A  long  and  minute  ac- 
quaintance with  its  pages  has  satisfied  the  present 
Editor  that  no  general  statements  can  give  any 
adequate  impression  of  its  character.  In  some  of 
the  plays  the  printing  is  shockingly  bad ;  in  others, 
it  is  nearly  as  good  as  need  be  desired ;  while  in  a 
portion  of  them  it  is  neither  so  good  nor  so  bad  as 
has  been  sometimes  represented.  It  is  admitted  on 
all  hands  that  in  several  of  the  plays  no  text  at  all 
satisfactory  can  be  had  without  resorting  to  the  quar- 
tos, many  of  the  best  passages,  and  sometimes  even 
whole  scenes,  being  altogether  wanting  in  the  folio. 
.Notwithstanding,  it  is  maintained  by  some  (and  this 
is  one  of  the  rocks  on  which  Knight's  editorial  vessel 
split)  that  the  folio  is  throughout  the  better  authority 
Such  is  not  the  judgment  of  the  present  Editor :  on 
the  contrary,  in  some  of  the  plays,  as  A  Midsummer- 
Night's  Dream,  The  Merchant  of  Venice,  King 
Richard  II.,  The  First  Part  of  King  Henry  IV., 
Romeo  and  Juliet,  and  Hamlet,  he  holds  the  quarto 
text  as  on  the  whole  preferable  to  that  of  the  folio. 
In  these  cases,  accordingly,  as  is  explained  more  at 
large  in  the  Introductions,  the  older  copies  are  treated 
as  the  chief  standards  of  the  text,  in  this  edition. 

For  the  use  here  made  of  what  have  become 
widely  known  of  late  as  "  The  Collier  Emendations," 
the  reader  is  referred  to  what  follows  this  Preface. 
The  text  of  Shakespeare  as  given  in  the  old  copies 
leaves  open  a  wide  field  for  editorial  judgment,  and 
w  in  just  the  state  most  apt  to  be  benefited  by  a 


PREFACE    TO    THE    REVISED    EDITION. 

and  legitimate  exercise  of  that  faculty.  In 
cases  of  evident  or  probable  misprint,  the  present 
fcditor  has  availed  himself  of  all  the  suggestions 
within  his  reach :  where  the  error  seemed  unques- 
tionable, the  correction  is  sometimes  made  without 
remark ;  where  there  seemed  any  room  for  doubt  on 
this  score,  the  correction  is  generally  pointed  out  in 
the  notes. 

The  Chiswick  edition,  as  things  then  stood,  fur- 
nished in  the  mam  a  pretty  judicious  and  not  very 
cumbrous  eclecticism  of  previous  annotation.  Of 
course,  the  purifying  of  the  text  has  necessitated 
many  changes  in  the  notes.  Moreover,  superfluous 
notes  and  superfluous  parts  of  notes  required  vigor- 
ous pruning :  sometimes  additional  notes,  sometimes 
Different  ones,  were  demanded  by  the  present  state 
of  Shakespearian  literature:  quotations  and  refer- 
ences, carelessly  and  inaccurately  made,  often  needed 
to  be  verified  and  set  right ;  while  in  not  a  few  cases 
the  notes  were  written  so  awkwardly  or  so  diffusely 
as  rather  to  darken  what  they  were  meant  to  illus- 
trate. In  the  present  edition  all  these  points  are 
carefully  attended  to,  no  pains  being  spared  to  render 
the  notes  as  clear,  brief,  and  pertinent,  as  practicable. 
For  the  matter  of  the  notes  the  Editor  has  drawn 
with  the  utmost  freedom  from  all  the  sources  accessi- 
ble to  him ;  often  bringing  in  illustrative  passages 
that  had  occurred  in  his  own  reading,  oftener  those 
which  had  been  quoted  by  others.  It  must  be  added 
that  this  work  of  annotation  has  been  greatly  facili- 
tated by  Mrs.  Cowden  Clarke's  Concordance  to 


PREFACE    TO    THE    REVISED    EDITION.  XI 

Shakespeare,  unquestionably  one  of  the  most  perfect 
and  most  useful  books  that  have  been  written  in  con- 
nection with  the  Poet's  name. 

In  his  Introductions,  the  Editor  has  aimed,  prima- 
rily, to  gather  up  all  the  historical  and  bibliographical 
information  that  has  been  made  accessible,  concerning 
the  times  when  the  several  plays  were  written  and 
first  acted,  and  the  sources  whence  the  plots  and 
materials  of  them  were  derived.  It  will  be  seen 
that  in  the  history  of  the  Poet's  plays  the  indefatiga- 
ble labours  of  Mr.  Collier  and  others,  often  resulting 
in  important  discoveries,  have  wrought  changes 
amounting  almost  to  a  revolution,  within  the  last 
fifty  years.  And  there  seems  the  more  cause  for 
dwelling  on  what  the  Poet  took  from  preceding 
writers,  in  that  it  exhibits  him,  where  a  right-minded 
study  should  specially  delight  to  contemplate  him,  as 
holding  his  unrivalled  inventive  powers  subordinate 
to  the  higher  principles  of  art.  He  cared  little  for  the 
interest  of  novelty,  which  is  but  a  short-lived  thing 
at  the  best;  much  for  the  interest  of  truth  and 
beauty,  which  is  indeed  immortal,  and  always  grows 
upon  acquaintance.  And  the  novel-writing  of  our 
time  shows  that  hardly  any  thing  is  easier  than  to 
get  up  new  incidents  or  new  combinations  of  inci- 
dents for  a  story  ;  and  as  the  interest  of  such  things 
turns  mainly  on  their  novelty,  so  of  course  they 
become  less  interesting  the  more  one  knows  them; 
which  order  (for  "  a  thing  of  beauty  is  a  joy  for 
ever ")  is  just  reversed  in  genuine  works  of  art. 
Besides,  if  Shakespeare  is  the  most  original  of 


Ill  PREFACE    TO    THE    REVISED    EDITION. 

writers,  he  is  also  one  of  the  greatest  of  borrowers ; 
and  as  few  authors  have  appropriated  so  freely  from 
others,  so  none  can  better  afford  to  have  his  obliga- 
tions in  this  kind  made  known. 

Of  the  critical  remarks  in  the  Introductions,  per- 
naps  the  less  said,  the  better.  The  Editor,  how- 
ever, may  be  allowed  to  say,  that  in  this  part  of  his 
work  he  has  held  it  as  a  sort  of  axiom,  that  the  pro- 
per business  of  criticism  is  to  translate  truths  of  feeling 
into  truths  of  intelligence  ;  and  that  his  aim  has  been 
rather  to  involve  or  imply  the  principles  of  criticism 
so  deeply  meditated  and  expounded  by  Coleridge 
and  Schlegel  than  to  give  a  distinct  formal  expres- 
sion of  them.  For  it  may  be  aptly  said  that  in 
studying  works  of  art  "  he  is  oft  the  wisest  man  who 
is  not  wise  at  all."  And  the  course  here  pursued 
seems  the  better,  forasmuch  as  it  holds  out  some 
hope  of  conducting  the  reader,  by  silent  natural 
processes,  to  such  a  state  and  habit  of  mind,  that  he 
may  contemplate  the  plays,  perhaps  without  know- 
ing it,  as  works  of  art,  and  see  all  the  parts  and 
elements  of  a  given  struct  are  intertwining  and 
coalescing  and  growing  up  together  in  vital,  organic 
harmony  and  reciprocity.  For  if,  without  being 
drawn  into  an  ugly  conceit  or  vanity  of  criticism, 
the  reader  can  be  made  to  see  and  understand  how  in 
the  Poet's  delineations  every  thing  is  fitted  to  every 
other  thing ;  how  each  requires  and  infers  the  others, 
and  all  hang  together  in  orderly  coherence  and  mu 
tual  support ;  it  is  plain  that  both  the  pleasure  and 
the  profit  of  the  reading  must  be  greatly  increased. 


PAEFACE    TO    THE    REVISED    EDITION.         Xlij 

Ripe  Shakespearians,  it  is  true,  may  not  need  such 
help,  and  may  even  be  impatient  of  it ;  nevertheless 
the  Editor  ventures  to  think  that  just  analyses  of  the 
Poet's  characters,  bringing  out  into  conscious  recog- 
nition their  individual  forms  and  distinctive  springs, 
may  be  of  service  to  many  readers,  not  only  in 
making  them  more  at  home  with  his  truth,  but  in 
helping  them  to  realize  more  fully  the  vast  wealth 
and  compass  of  his  multitudinous  mind.  Shakespeare 
interprets  Nature :  to  interpret  him,  is  a  much  hum 
bier  function  indeed,  but  not  altogether  useless. 

In  the  Life  here  given  of  Shakespeare,  the  Edi- 
tor has  aimed  merely  to  set  forth,  in  a  simple  and 
plain  way,  and  without  any  flourish  or  fumigation, 
whatsoever  lay  within  his  reach,  that  seemed  to 
illustrate,  directly  or  remotely,  the  history  and  char- 
acter of  the  subject  as  a  poet  and  as  a  man ;  his 
aims  in  life,  and  his  failures  and  successes  in  them ; 
wherein  he  was  helpful  to  others,  and  wherein  he 
received  help  from  them.  The  materials  for  this 
work  are  meagre  enough  at  the  best,  and  their  mea- 
greness  is  apt  to  induce  an  overworking  of  them. 
Besides,  of  the  little  matter  there  is,  the  greater  part, 
being  derived  from  legal  documents  and  public  records, 
is  of  so  dry  and  hard  a  quality,  that  to  make  it  inter- 
esting and  attractive,  save  for  the  subject's  sake,  is 
nearly  out  of  the  question.  If  the  present  essay 
should  be  thought  overcharged  with  the  original  sin 
of  the  matter,  there  is  yet  no  law  against  holding  that 
even  such  a  fault  is  better  than  to  offend  good  taste, 
as  some  of  the  Poet's  biographers  have  done,  b« 


XIV  PREFACE    TO   THE    REVISED    EDITION 

elaborate  impertinence  and  ornate  and  fanciful  con- 
jecture. The  only  kindling  that  seems  desirable 
here  is  such  as  will  throw  real  light  on  the  Poet, 
not  such  as  would  smoke  him  into  vastness. 

Touching  the  Historical  Sketch  of  the  English 
Drama,  the  writer's  main  purpose  therein  was  to 
show,  what  has  not  always  been  duly  attended  to, 
that  the  Drama,  as  we  have  it  in  Shakespeare,  was 
a  national  growth,  not  an  individual  creation ;  and 
that  we  are  probably  indebted  for  it  as  much  to  the 
public  taste  and  preparation  of  the  time  as  to  the 
genius  of  the  man.  The  Shakespearian  Drama 
came,  not  merely  or  mainly  because  Shakespeare  was 
the  greatest  of  human  intellects,  but  rather  because 
he  was  an  Englishman,  breathing,  from  the  cradle 
upwards,  the  atmosphere  of  English  life  and  thought, 
and  concentrating  in  himself  the  whole  spirit  and 
efficacy  of  the  English  mind  and  character,  as  these 
had  ripened  up  through  centuries  of  development 
and  progress.  In  his  day,  the  Drama  was  and 
long  had  been  an  intense  national  passion ;  a  passion 
which  kept  growing  deeper  and  stronger,  till  at  length 
an  age  of  daring  innovation  and  expansion  set  it 
free;  while  the  further  want  of  an  omniloquent 
organ  to  give  it  voice  and  expression  was  met  and 
answered  in  Shakespeare.  Thus  the  time  and  the 
man  were  suited  to  each  other ;  and  it  was  in  his 
direct,  fearless,  whole-hearted  sympathy  with  the 
soul  of  the  time  that  the  man  both  lost  himself  and 
found  his  power :  which  is  doubtless  one  reason  why 
we  see  so  little  of  him  in  his  work ;  he  being  too 


PREFACE    TO    THE    REVISED    EDITION.  X» 

much  kindled  to  think  of  himself  or  of  the  figure  he 
was  making.  So  that  the  work  could  not  possibly 
have  been  done  anywhere  but  in  England,  the  Eng- 
land of  Spenser  and  Raleigh  and  Bacon ;  nor  could 
it  have  been  done  there  and  then  by  any  man  but 
Shakespeare.  In  his  hand,  what  had  long  been  a 
national  passion  became  emphatically  a  National 
Institution ;  how  full  of  life,  is  shown  in  that  it  has 
ever  since  refused  to  die.  And  it  seems  well  worth 
the  while  to  bring  this  clearly  into  view,  inasmuch 
as  it  serves  to  remove  the  subject  upon  deeper  and 
broader  principles  of  criticism  than  have  commonly 
stood  uppermost  in  the  minds  of  the  Poet's  critics. 
To  impart  anything  like  just  and  adequate  ideas 
touching  the  origin  and  progress  of  the  English 
Drama,  the  Editor  knew  no  better,  nor  indeed  any 
other  way,  than  by  giving  analyses  of  various  speci- 
mens in  the  several  forms  or  stages  through  which 
that  Drama  passed.  It  is  not  unlikely  that  he  may 
have  overdone  this  part  of  the  work  ;  for  the  subject 
has  a  certain  fascination  for  him,  insomuch  as  to  dis- 
qualify him  perhaps  for  judging  how  far  it  might 
prove  edifying  or  attractive  to  others. 

Of  his  slender  qualifications  for  the  task,  perhaps 
it  is  enough  for  the  Editor  to  say  that  he  is  deeply 
sensible  of  them ;  that  every  step  lie  has  taken  in 
the  work  has  reminded  him  of  them ;  and  that 
none,  it  is  hoped,  will  be  more  apt  to  charge  him, 
than  he  is  to  charge  himself,  with  presumption  in  un- 
dertaking it  It  is  but  justice  to  add,  that  the  work 
sought  him,  not  he  the  work.  Fortunately,  by  far 


XVI          PREFACE    TO    THE    REVISED    EDITION 

the  most  important  part  of  the  task,  that  of  setting 
forth  a  pure  and  genuine  text  of  the  Poet,  is  one 
where  patient  industry  and  care  may  in  some  measure 
be  made  to  supply  the  lack  of  other  qualification. 

In  the  course  of  his  work  the  Editor  has  incurred 
many  obligations ;  divers  facilities  having  been  kindly 
offered  him  before  they  were  sought,  and  others 
as  kindly  granted  upon  his  hinting  a  request.  In 
fact,  he  has  met  with  nothing  but  the  most  generous 
and  hearty  spirit  of  accommodation.  To  Mr.  Charles 
Folsom,  the  late  accomplished  and  gentlemanly 
librarian  of  the  Boston  Athenaeum ;  to  Mr.  Henry 
T.  Parker,  formerly  of  Boston,  now  of  London, 
England ;  to  George  C.  Shattuck,  M.  D.,  Mr.  Edwin 
P.  Whipple,  and  Mr.  Joseph  Burnett,  of  Boston ; 
also,  to  the  learned  and  liberal  Dr.  Cogswell,  of  the 
Astor  Library,  the  Hon.  Gulian  C.  Verplanck,  Mr. 
Evert  A.  Duyckinck,  Mr.  George  L.  Duyckinck, 
and  Mr.  Edward  S.  Gould,  of  New  York ;  —  to  all 
these  he  has  been  and  is  indebted  for  important 
favours.  Nor  must  the  stereotypers  of  the  Boston 
Foundry  go  unremembered ;  whom  he  has  found  as 
fine  a  set  of  fellows  to  work  with  as  an  author  or 
editor  ought  to  desire. 

BOSTON,  September,  1871. 


ADDITIONAL    NOTES 

TO 

THE  REVISED  EDITION. 


Qy  these  eleven  volumes  six  were  stereotyped  and  in 
print  before  the  appearance  of  what  have  come  to  be 
known  as  "The  Collier  Emendations."  In  the  five 
volumes  stereotyped  since,  we  have  aimed,  as  our  foot- 
notes will  show,  to  make  a  cautious,  but  not  illiberal  use 
of  them.  The  same  is  now  done  in  the  first  six  volumes, 
the  requisite  alterations  of  the  text  being  made  in  the 
plates.  Of  course  it  is  impracticable  to  supply  foot-notea 
of  these  changes ;  and,  as  it  were  scarce  allowable  to 
adopt  them  without  some  notice,  there  is  no  way  but  to 
point  them  out  in  the  manner  here  used. 

This  is  not  the  place  for  canvassing  at  length  the  gen- 
eral subject  of  those  emendations.  But  it  seems  very 
proper  to  add  a  few  remarks,  by  way  of  intimating  oizr 
judgment  concerning  them,  and  the  use  Mr.  Collier  saw 
fit  to  make  of  them.  First,  however,  we  must  state  a 
few  items  of  history. 

In  the  years  1842-4,  Mr.  Collier  set  forth  a  complete 
edition  of  Shakespeare's  Works,  restoring  the  text  with 
great  care  and  accuracy,  and  embodying  a  large  fund  of 
antiquarian  and  other  lore  in  the  form  of  introductions 
and  notes.  The  edition  has  many  points  of  excellence ; 
but  there  is  one  fault  running  through  it,  which  must 
ever  keep  it  from  passing  into  general  use.  This  fault 


ADDITIONAL   NOTES    TO 

ia  a  vicious  and  ibsurd  extreme  of  adherence  to  the  origi- 
nal copies.  Previous  editors  had  licentiously  tampered 
with  the  text,  acting  too  much  on  the  principle  of  giving 
what,  in  their  judgment,  Shakespeare  ought  to  have 
written :  Mr.  Collier  rightly  acted  on  the  principle  of 
giving  what  Shakespeare  did  write,  but  made  far  too  little 
allowance  for  the  errors  of  transcribers  and  printers. 

The  first  collected  edition  of  Shakespeare's  plays  was 
printed  in  1623,  in  folio  form.  Before  this,  seventeen  of 
his  plays  had  been  separately  issued,  some  of  them 
several  times,  in  quarto.  The  folio  of  1623  was  re- 
printed, with  some  corrections  and  some  corruptions,  in 
1632.  These  several  issues  are  our  only  authorities  for 
ascertaining  the  text.  All  of  them  abound  in  palpable 
misprints  ;  besides,  they  vary  a  good  deal  among  them- 
selves, and  thus  give  large  scope  for  criticism  in  a  choice 
of  readings. 

In  1851,  Mr.  Collier  lighted  on  a  copy  of  the  second 
folio  containing  a  large  number  of  manuscript  alterations, 
amounting,  in  all,  to  some  20,000,  though  much  the 
greater  portion  were  mere  changes  in  the  punctuation. 
The  source  of  them  was  unknown,  the  date  uncertain. 
Mr.  Collier  at  first  supposed  them  to  be  nearly  as  old  as 
the  volume  itself,  and  that  the  maker  of  them  might  have 
had  access  to  the  Poet's  own  manuscripts,  or  something 
about  as  good.  In  1853,  Mr.  Collier  published  most  of 
the  verbal  changes  in  a  separate  volume,  with  an  Intro- 
duction, arguing  strongly  for  their  authenticity.  He  put 
forth  a  theory  as  to  their  genesis,  which,  if  fully  made 
otit,  would  leave  us  no  choice  in  regard  to  them.  The 
theory,  however,  was  mostly  spun  out  of  his  own  brain, 
and  had  no  competent  facts  to  rest  upon.  But,  though 
maintaining  those  changes  to  be  authentic  in  the  mass, 
he  nevertheless  took  the  liberty  of  questioning  and  dis- 
allowing their  authority  in  particular  cases ;  as  if  he  had 


THE    REVISED    EDITION.  XlX 

somehow  got  it  fixed  in  his  head,  that  they  were  to  be 
authoritative  on  others,  and  the  prerogative  of  over- 
ruling them  limited  to  himself.  This  of  course  provoked 
a  good  deal  of  controversy.  Dyce  and  Singer,  both 
veteran  Shakespearians,  put  forth  each  a  volume  stoutly 
repudiating  the  claim  of  those  changes  to  be  received  as 
authentic,  but  admitting,  in  respect  of  some  of  them, 
whatever  claim  could  grow  from  intrinsic  fitness. 

Not  long  afterwards,  Mr.  Collier  set  forth,  evidently 
for  popular  use,  a  reprint  of  his  text  of  1842-4,  incor- 
porating therein  those  aforesaid  verbal  changes.  Surely, 
in  every  right  view  of  the  matter,  this  was  a  very  un- 
warrantable procedure.  Shakespeare  is  the  great  Eng- 
lish classic.  As  such,  his  text  is  a  sacred  thing,  and 
ought  to  be  so  held.  And  no  man  must  arrogate  to 
himself  the  prerogative  of  making  and  circulating  such  a 
wholesale  innovation.  Moreover,  Mr.  Collier  was  in  all 
justice  precluded,  by  his  own  mode  of  treating  those 
changes,  from  the  liberty  of  thus  giving  them  to  th« 
public  as  a  part  of  the  Poet's  authentic  text.  In  his 
first  edition,  he  took  extreme  ground  against  textual 
changes,  even  going  so  far  as  to  reject  many  valuable 
and  some  indispensable  corrections.  In  his  second,  he 
vaulted  plump  into  the  opposite  extreme,  setting  forth 
as  authentic  a  huge  mass  of  ignorant  tampering,  and 
thereby,  so  far  as  in  him  lay,  corrupting  the  text  more 
than  all  the  other  modern  editors  put  together. 

There  is  in  literature,  as  in  many  other  things,  a  sort  of 
common  law  which,  in  so  grave  and  delicate  a  matter  as 
the  text  of  Shakespeare,  requires  that  changes,  especially 
if  at  all  numerous  and  important,  should  in  some  way  be 
passed  upon  by  the  literary  public  or  its  representatives, 
before  being  admitted  into  popular  use  and  circulation. 
Nor  can  any  individual,  however  learned  and  sagacious, 
net  up  a  peculiar,  much  less  an  exclusive,  jurisdiction  of 


XX  ADDITIONAL    NOTES    TO 

Shakespeare's  text :  there  is  a  literary  Senate  to  whose 
collective  judgment  questions  of  that  nature  must  be 
referred.  For  men,  and  editors  of  Shakespeare  as  well 
as  others,  are  naturally  partial  to  their  own  notions  and 
discoveries ;  and  when  these  are  on  trial  the  case  is  so 
much  their  own  that  they  can  hardly  be  indifferent 
judges.  They  who,  at  least  in  a  moral  sense,  are  best 
qualified  for  such  an  office,  will  be  most  apt  to  distrust 
their  own  judgment,  and  to  invoke  a  more  disinterested 
verdict  upon  the  points  in  issue. 

That  some  of  the  emendations  in  question  are  exceed- 
ingly apt  and  valuable,  is  now  commonly  admitted ;  and 
our  foot-notes  in  Coriolanus  will  furnish  enough,  we 
apprehend,  to  satisfy  any  fair-minded  reader  that  such 
is  the  case.  A  portion  of  them,  no  doubt,  will  pass  at 
once  into  the  Poet's  text,  not  to  be  disputed  by  future 
editors.  But  the  number  of  such  is  not  very  large  in 
comparison  of  the  whole  list.  Of  by  far  the  larger  por- 
tion, some  are,  to  say  the  least,  of  very  questionable 
merit,  and  many  of  very  unquestionable  demerit.  To 
do  the  thing  out  somewhat  in  detail :  The  whole  number 
of  verbal  changes  found  in  Mr.  Collier's  folio  of  1632 
falls,  in  our  counting,  a  little  short  of  3,500.  Of  these, 
only  about  500,  it  seems  to  us,  can  be  justly  regarded 
as  deserving  of  any  consideration.  Of  these  500,  again, 
about  one-half  had  been  adopted  into  the  text,  or  pro- 
posed for  adoption,  long  before  any  thing  was  heard  of 
Mr.  Collier's  second  folio ;  a  portion  of  those  so  adopted 
bijing  taken  from  the  quarto  copies  of  such  plays  as 
were  first  printed  in  that  form.  And  of  the  remaining 
250.  more  than  100  are  of  doubtful  merit,  plausibility 
being  the  best  that  can  be  affirmed  of  them.  Which 
leaves  us  less  than  150  desirable  or  admissible  changes 
to  be  credited  to  the  unknown  manuscript  corrector. 
This  estimate  proceeds,  too,  upon  a  pretty  free  and 


THE    REVISED    EDITION.  IXJ 

liberal  view  of  the  matter :  any  thing  like  severity  of 
criticism  would  considerably  reduce  the  amount  of  obli- 
gation to  the  corrector  aforesaid. 

But,  small,  comparatively,  as  is  the  number  of  accep- 
table changes  from  this  source,  there  are  yet  enough  to 
deserve  our  grateful  acknowledgment ;  and  we  freely 
confess  that  the  cause  of  Shakespearian  literature  is  in 
no  slight  measure  indebted  to  Mr.  Collier's  discovery. 
It  is  indeed  a  very  important  addition  to  our  means  of 
arriving  at  a  satisfactory  text  of  the  Poet.  It  does  an 
old  Shakespearian's  heart  good  to  light,  for  instance, 
upon  such  an  item  of  relief  as  the  substitution  of  bisson 
multitude  for  bosom'  multiplied,  in  Coriolanus,  Act  iii. 
Scene  L,  vol.  viii.,  page  226: 

"  How  shall  this  bisson  multitude  digest 
The  Senate's  courtesy?" 

Also,  the  substitution  of  mirror'd  for  married  in  Tro\- 
lus  and  Cressida,  Act  iii.,  Scene  iii.,  voL  vii.,  page 
450: 

"  For  speculation  turns  not  to  itself, 
Till  it  hath  travell'd,  and  is  mirror'd  there 
Where  it  may  see  itself." 

Yet  these  changes  are  not  more  happy  than  that  pro- 
posed by  Singer,  which  substitutes  wearer's  for  weary  in 
As  You  Like  It,  Actii.,  Scene  vii.,  vol.  iii.,  page  186 : 

"  Doth  it  not  flow  as  hugely  as  the  sea, 
Till  that  the  wearer's  very  means  do  ebb?  " 

Still  more  delightful,  perhaps,  is  Mr.  Richard  Grant 
White's  restoration  in  The  Winter's  Tale,  Act  iii.,  Scene 
iii.,  vol.  iv.,  page  74 :  "A  god,  or  a  child,  I  wonder?*1 
where  the  old  copy  has  boy  instead  of  god. 


ADDITIONAL   NOTES   TO 

Having  said  thus  much,  perhaps  we  ought  to  add  that, 
highly  as  we  prize  some  of  the  old  corrector's  work,  we 
would  nevertheless  iciuch  rather  part  with  it  all  than  be 
obliged  to  accept  it  all.  If  he  had  not  made  six  times 
as  many  bad  changes  as  good  ones,  and  in  numerous 
instances  marred  the  text  merely  because  he  did  not 
understand  it,  we  might  perhaps  be  justified  in  accepting 
a  few  doubtful  cases  on  account  of  the  good  company 
they  were  in.  As  to  his  having  access  to  some  authentic 
source,  all  we  have  to  say  is,  that,  if  so,  then  he  certainly 
mixed  up  with  what  he  derived  therefrom  such  a  mass 
of  clumsy  and  awkward  conjecture  as  to  deprive  his 
work  of  all  external  support.  Such,  for  example,  is  his 
turning  of  mother  into  smother,  in  Cymbeline,  Act  iiL, 
Scene  iv.,  vol.  ix.,  page  91 : 

"  Some  jay  of  Italy, 
Whose  mother  was  her  painting,  hath  betray'd  him." 

And  again,  his  substitution  of  boast  for  beast,  in  Macbeth, 
Act  i.,  Scene  vii.,  vol.  iv.,  page  264: 

"  Macbeth.  Pr'ythee,  peace ! 

I  dare  do  all  that  may  become  a  man ; 
Who  dares  do  more  is  none." 

"Lady  Macbeth.  What  beast  was't,  then, 

That  made  you  break  this  enterprise  to  me  ? 
When  you  durst  do  it,  then  you  were  a  man." 

All  which  infers,  plainly  enough,  that  we  do  not  regard 
the  changes  in  question  as  standing  on  any  thing  that 
can  properly  be  termed  authority.  Any  claim  or  pre- 
tence of  that  kind  is  simply  absurd.  We  can  discover 
no  reasonable  or  even  plausible  ground  for  adopting  any 
of  them,  but  their  intrinsic  fitness ;  precisely  the  same 
as  in  case  of  any  other  editorial  emendations.  And  the 
only  argument  worth  considering  that  has  been  urged  for 


THE   REVISED    EDITION.  XX1U 

their  authenticity  rests  upon  this  very  fitness,  and  has  no 
other  basis ;  which  of  course  concludes  only  such  of  them 
to  be  authentic  as  are  judged  to  be  fit,  and  so  leaves 
us  just  where  we  were  before.  In  fact,  with  the  best 
study  we  could  give  them,  which  is  somewhat  more  than 
a  little,  we  have  not  been  able  to  tie  up  in  any  general 
rules  concerning  them :  we  have  still  had  to  consider 
them  severally,  and  to  form  a  separate  and  independent 
judgment  of  each  one  of  them,  as  it  came  before  us ; 
which,  we  are  right  well  persuaded,  is  the  only  judicious 
or  safe  way  of  treating  them.  This  is  indeed  a  slow  and 
tedious  process,  and  by  no  means  agreeable  to  one  who 
aspires  to  the  honour  of  despatching  a  great  work  all  in 
a  lump :  nevertheless  it  stands  within  the  scope  of  the 
old  maxim,  "  Stay  awhile,  and  make  an  end  the  sooner." 

But  indeed  Mr.  Collier  himself  has  not  been  able  to 
rest  in  his  first  conclusion  upon  the  matter.  In  the  Pre- 
face to  his  Notes  of  Coleridge's  Lectures,  published  in 
1856,  he  confesses  to  have  fallen  back  upon  his  old 
common-sense  principles  in  regard  to  Shakespeare's 
text.  "  I  am  more  and  more  convinced,"  says  he, 
"  that  the  great  majority  of  the  corrections  were  made, 
not  from  better  manuscripts,  still  less  from  unknown 
printed  copies  of  the  plays,  but  from  the  recitations  of 
old  actors  while  the  performance  was  proceeding ; "  and 
he  takes  this  as  going  far  to  explain  what  would  else  be 
"  an  anomalous  instance  of  one  and  the  same  mind  dis- 
playing a  sagacity  worthy  of  Bentley,  and  yet  capable  of 
sinking  below  the  dullest  pedant."  It  is  a  real  pleasure 
to  us  to  record  such  proofs  of  this  old  Shakespearian's 
happy  return  to  reason  and  sobriety. 

Well,  the  question  has  since  been  taken  in  hand  by 
the  most  competent  authorities;  the  character  of  the 
corrections  has  been  sifted  thoroughly ;  chemical  science 
and  paleographic  skill  have  been  brought  to  bear  upon 


XXIV  ADDITIONAL   NOTES   TO 

it ;  and  the  result  goes  near  to  make  out  a  pretty  decided 
3ase  of  imposture  and  fraud.  Yet  we  are  far  from  being 
convinced  that  Mr.  Collier  has  at  any  time  acted  or 
spoken  otherwise  than  in  perfect  honesty  and  good  faith 
in  the  matter.  He  surely  could  not  afford  to  peril  his 
well-earned  reputation  on  the  chances  of  so  loose  and 
bungling  a  device.  The  argument  is  much  too  long  and 
intricate  for  any  attempt  to  trace  it  here ;  and  we  must 
content  ourselves  with  saying,  that  while  it  succeeds  in 
proving  a  fraud  somewhere,  it  does  not  succeed  in  fixing 
the  fra^d  upon  him.  Call  him  the  victim  of  a  poor  im- 
posture, if  you  will,  but  not  the  author  of  it :  we  are 
satisfied  that  the  worthy  gentleman  does  not  deserve 
that ;  and  even  if  he  did,  he  has  already  received  exem- 
plary punishment  in  the  ugly  exposure  that  followed. 
But  indeed  we  frankly  acquit  him  of  any  further  blame 
in  the  matter  than  is  implied  in  saying  that  ' '  he  was 
old  enough,  and  big  enough,  and  ought  to  have  known 
better  "  than  to  rush  upon  the  public  such  an  undigested 
hodge-podge  of  reason  and  absurdity. 

The  learned  Mr.  Singer,  the  accomplished  Mr.  Dyce, 
and  several  others  well  qualified  for  the  office,  have 
spoken  more  or  less  touching  these  emendations.  For 
ourselves,  we  have  ventured  to  admit  very  few  of  them, 
relying  solely  on  our  own  opinion :  in  most  of  our  adop- 
tions, and  in  many  of  our  rejections,  we  have  had  the 
judgment  of  other  and  better  men,  to  instruct  or  con- 
firm our  own.  And  among  those  which  we  do  not 
accept,  there  are  some,  no  doubt,  that  may  justly  stand 
as  candidates  for  future  adoption ;  nor  is  it  anywise  un- 
likely that  a  few  of  these  may  sooner  or  later  make 
good  then*  claim.  On  the  other  hand,  it  is  probable 
enough  that  some  of  those  which  we  have  admitted  may. 
on  better  consideration,  need  to  be  ruled  out  of  the  text. 
All  we  can  say  is,  that  we  have  aimed  and  endeavoured 


THE    REVISED    EDITION.  XX\ 

to  be  both  cautious  and  liberal  respecting  these  proffered 
emendations ;  nor  are  we  sensible  of  having,  as  indeed 
there  is  no  reason  why  we  should  have,  any  bias  one 
way  or  the  other,  to  hinder  a  fair  and  candid  treatment 
of  them. 

Remains  but  to  add,  that  a  few  of  our  changes  in  the 
plates  are  derived  from  other  sources  than  Mr.  Collier's 
second  folio ;  which  few  have  also  been  proposed  since 
the  original  stereotyping  of  the  text. 

Besides  the  textual  changes,  the  present  issue  corrects 
whatever  typographical  errors  were  missed  in  the  read- 
ing of  the  proofs,  and  have  since  been  discovered. 


VOLUME    L 


THE  TEMPEST. 

Page  22. 

*'  I  have  with  such  prevision  in  mine  art." 

Instead  of  prevision,  the  original  has  provision.  The  sense  of 
ore  vision  just  suits  the  context,  and  the  misprint  was  of  a  Kind 
apt  to  be  made. 

Page  64. 

'  But  these  sweet  thoughts  do  even  refresh  my  labour; 

Most  busiest  when  I  do  it." 

The  original  has  labours  and  busy  blest.  The  present  reading  wa ; 
proposed  by  Holt  White,  and  is  approved  by  Singer.  The  Poet 
OB  every  reader  of  him  knows,  often  uses  the  double  superlative 


X2CV1  ADDITIONAL    NOTES    TO 

Of  course  the  sense  as  here  given  is,  "  But  these  sweet  thoughts, 
being  busiest  when  I  ain  at  work  for  such  a  prize,  turn  my  labour 
into  delight." 

Page  89. 

"  What  do  you  mean, 

To  dote  thus  on  such  luggage  ?    Let's  along, 
And  do  the  murder  first." 

The  old  copy  reads,  "  Let's  alone."  The  change  is  proposed  by 
Mr.  Dyce,  in  his  "  Few  Notes  on  Shakespeare,"  1853. 


THE  TWO  GENTLEMEN  OF  VERONA. 

Page  118. 

"  'Tis  true ;  but  you  are  over  boots  in  love." 
The  original  has  for  instead  of  but.    For  does  not  suit  the  con- 
text, and  probably  got  repeated  from  the  preceding  line. 

Page  178. 

"  Come,  go  with  us:  we'll  bring  you  to  our  cave." 
The  original  reads  crews  instead  of  cave.    It  appears  in  Act  v., 
Scene  iii.,  that  cave  is  right:  "Come,  I  must  bring  you  to  out 
captain's  cave." 

Page  188. 

"  The  other  squirrel  was  stolen  from  me  by  the  hangman  boys." 
The  original  has  "  hangman's  boys."  Hangman  means  rascally. 
The  Poet  elsewhere  has  "  a  gallows  boy,"  in  a  similar  sense. 

Page  197. 

"  These  shadowy,  desert,  unfrequented  woods." 
The  old  copies  have  thix  instead  of  these.    The  change  ought  not 
to  have  waited  for  Collier's  aiscovery. 


THE    REVISED    EDITION. 


THE  MERRY  WIVES  OF  WINDSOR. 

Page  234. 

"  To  steal  at  a  minim's  rest" 

TLa  old  copies  read,  "  minute's  rest."    The  change  is  aj  proved  by 
Singer,  who  says  it  had  been  suggested  by  Mr.  Bennet  Langton. 

Page  294. 

"  Master  Slender  is  get  the  boys  leave  to  play." 
The  old  reading  has  let  instead  of  get.    The  latter  comes  aptly  from 
the  mouth  of  Sir  Hugh ;  the  former  could  hardly  come  from  any  one. 

Page  305. 

,  "  Ton  see,  he  has  been  thrown  into  the  rivers." 

The  old  copies  read,  "You  say ; "  which  will  hardly  cohere  either 
with  the  context  or  with  the  man. 

Page  321. 

"  To  Windsor  chimneys  when  thou'st  leapt." 
The  original  reads,  "To  Windsor  chimneys  shalt  thou  leap.' 
Some  change  like  the  one  here  given  is  evidently  required  both 
by  the  sense  and  the  verse,  as  leap  does  not  rhyme  with  swept. 

Page  329. 

"  And  this  deceit  loses  the  name  of  craft, 
Of  disobedience,  and  unduteous  guile." 

The  old  copies  have  title  instead  of  guile.    Truth  and  poetry  unite 
in  approving  the  change. 


TWELFTH  NIGHT,   OR  WHAT  YOU  WILL. 

Page  376. 

"Vio.  She  took  the  ring  of  me." 

Mr.  Collier's  second  folio  reads,  "  She  took  no  ring  of  me."  The 
change  is  plausible,  but  misses  the  right  sense.  Viola  divines  at 
once  the  meaning  of  the  ring,  and  will  not  expose  the  sendei 
of  it. 


X.XVU1  ADDITIONAL   NOTES    TO 

Page  443. 

"  Then  he's  a  rogue,  and  apassy-measurespaynim.'1 
This  is  commonly  printed  "  a  passy-measures  pavin ;  and  ex- 
plained to  mean  a  slow,  heavy  dance  ;  passy-measures  being  a 
corruption  of passamezzo,  an  Italian  name  for  a  style  of  dancing 
not  much  unlike  walking.  The  original  has  panyn,  doubtless  a 
misprint  for  paynim,  an  old  word  for  payan  or  heathen.  So  thai 
passy-measures  paynim  is  a  Sir  Tobyism  for  an  unmitigated 
pagan,  or  a  pagan  passing  measure;  which  just  suits  the  context. 
Of  course  the  foot-note  on  the  passage  is  defeated  by  this  reading 
and  explanation,  the  credit  of  which  belongs  to  Mr.  R.  G.  White 


VOLUME    II. 


MEASURE    FOR    MEASURE. 

Page  46. 
"  I'll  rent  the  fairest  house  in  it  for  three  pence  a  day." 

The  original  has  bay  instead  of  day.  There  can  be  little  question 
that  day  is  the  right  word.  Bay  has  been  very  troublesome  to 
explain. 

Page  52. 
"But,  ere  they  live,  to  end." 

The  original  has  "  here  they  live,"  which  is  clearly  wrong,  and 
is  commonly  changed  to  where.  The  present  reading  was  sug- 
gested by  Hanmer,  and  is  adopted  in  Collier's  folio.  For  a 
similar  instance,  see  "  All's  Well  that  Ends  Well,"  Act  ii.,  Scene 
v.,  note  2. 

Page  57. 

'  Showing,  we  would  not  serve  Heaven  as  we  love  it.*' 
"Spare  Heaven"  is  the  old  reading,  which  is  commonly  ex> 


THE    REVISED    EDITION.  XX1Z 

plained,  "  spare  to  offend  Heaven."  Possibly  sjmre  may  be 
right ;  but  there  can  be  little  scruple  of  accepting  the  change  front 
Collier's  foho. 

Page  82. 

"He's  a  motion  inyenerative  ;  that's  infallible." 
So  the  sense  evidently  requires  the  passage  to  read,  instead  of 
"  motion  generative"  the  reading  of  the  old  copies.    The  word 
motion  here  means  a  puppet;  often  so  used. 

Page  110. 

"  For  my  authority  Acre's  of  a  credent  bulk." 
The  original   has  bears,  instead  of  here's.     Collier's  folio  has 
"  bears  such  &  credent  bulk."     The  present  reading,  which  is 
proposed  by  Singer,  yields  quite  as  good  sense,  and  infers  a  much 
more  probable  misprint. 

Page  111. 

"  He  says,  to  'vailful  purpose." 

The  old  reading  is,  "to  veil  full  purpose,"  which  is  sometimes 
explained,  to  conceal  the  full  scope  of  his  proceeding.  Theobald 
would  read  "  t'  availful  purpose."  The  change  is  made  in  Collier's 
folio. 


MUCH  ADO  ABOUT  NOTHING. 

Page  161. 

"  There  is  no  measure  in  the  occasion  that  breeds  it,  therefore 
the  sadness  is  without  limit." 

All  the  old  copies  are  without  it,  which  is  plainly  required  by  the 
sense.  It  was  left  for  Collier's  folio  to  supply  the  word. 

Page  167. 

"  Balth.  Well,  I  would  you  did  like  me." 

'T"he  old  copies  assign  this  and  the  next  two  speeches  of  Balthazai 
to  Benedict.  The  change  is  proposed,  with  evident  propriety,  by 
Mr.  Dyce.  Prefixes  beginning  with  the  same  letter,  like  "  Bent  " 
•nd  ''Balth.,"  were  often  thus  confounded. 


XXX  ADDITIONAL    NOTES    TO 

Page  186. 

"  Beats  her  heart,  tears  her  hair,  prays,  cnes." 
Instead  of  cries,  the  old  copies  have  curses.    The  change,  eup- 
clied  by  Collier's  folio,  needs  no  voucher  but  itself. 


A  MIDSUMMER-NIGHT'S  DREAM. 

Page  268. 

"But  earthher  happy  is  the  rose  distill'd." 
This  is  the  authentic  reading,  which  some  editors,  followrng 
Capell,  have  changed  to  earthly  happier.  The  old  reading  is 
certainly  right,  and  means  "  happy  in  a  more  earthly  kind,"  as 
antithetic  to  happy  in  a  more  heavenly  kind.  So  that  the  new 
Beading  gives  a  wrong  sense. 

Page  319. 

"  0  me !  what  means  my  love?  " 

The  old  copies  have  newt,  instead  of  means,  which  is  found  in 
Collier's  folio. 

Page  328. 

"  FairieSj-begone,  and  be  a  while  away." 

The  old  copies  read,  "be  always  away,"  which  is  commonly 
changed  to  "  be  all  ways  away."  Collier's  folio  supplies  the  pres- 
ent reading,  which  is  unquestionably  right. 

Page  345. 

"  No  lion  fell,  nor  else  no  lion's  dam." 

The  old  reading  is,  "A  lion  fell,"  which  is  too  bad  a  blunder  fci 
BO  sharp  a  critic  as  Bottom.  Ft.  II  is  skin,  hair  and  all. 

Page  352. 

"  And  the  owner  of  it  blest 
Ever  shall  in  safety  rest." 
The  old  copies  transpose  these  two  lines,  and  have  thus  furnished 


THE    REVISE1>    EDITION.  XXXI 

a  standing  puzzle  to  the  critics.  A  good  many  changes  have 
been  proposed,  none  of  which  would  go.  The  present  reading 
meets  every  difficulty,  and  leaves  no  cause  of  doubt.  It  was  pro- 
posed by  a  correspondent,  "(J.  R.  W.,"  of  the  London  Illustrated 
News,  in  1856.  We  thank  him,  whoever  he  is. 


LOVE'S  LABOUR'S  LOST. 

Page  376. 

"  That  shallow  vessel." 

The  old  copies  read  vassal,  which  Collier's  folio  changes  to  vessel ; 
rightly,  no  doubt. 

Page  ,384. 

"  For  your  armiger  is  in  love." 

The  old  copies  have  manager  for  armiger.  Why  the  former 
word  should  be  used  here,  has  never  been  explained.  Armiger, 
meaning,  of  course,  knight,  suits  both  the  sense  of  the  passage 
and  the  style  of  the  speaker.  It  is  from  Collier's  folio. 

Page  397. 

u  A  messager  well  sympathiz'd." 

The  old  copies  have  message,  for  which  Collier's  folio  substitutes 
messenger.  Messager,  which  is  proposed  by  Singer,  is  an  old 
word  for  messenger,  and  more  likely  to  have  been  misprinted 
mess'tqe. 

Page  399. 

"  And  stay'd  the  odds  by  making  four." 

The  originals  have  adding  instead  of  making,  both  here  and  in  the 
sixth  line  below.  The  change,  from  Collier's  folio,  is  necessary  to 
the  sense. 

Page  403. 

"  A  witty  wanton  with  a  velvet  brow." 

Collier's  folio  corrects  whitely,  of  the  original,  to  witty,  which  ii 
the  right  epithet  for  Rosaline.  Whitely  would  hardly  have  been 
applied  to  her,  as  she,  it  appears,  was  a  brunette. 


XXX11  ADDITIONAL   NOTES    TO 

Page  428. 

"  Teaches  such  learning  as  a  woman's  eye." 
Here,  again,  Collier's  folio  brings  us  relief,  by  changing  be.avty  to 
learning,  which  the  context  shows  to  be  unquestionably  right. 

Page  440. 

"  So persantly  would  I  o'ersway  his  state." 

Fhe  old  copies  have pertaunt-like,  which  the  commentators  have 
never  been  able  to  make  any  thing  of.  Changes,  too  numerous  to 
mention,  have  been  proposed,  but  none  of  them  seem  to  go.  Collier's 
folio  gives  potently,  which  is  plausible,  but  does  not  suit  the  style 
and  purpose  of  the  speaker,  who  means  to  sway  her  lover  by  sharp- 
ness of  wit,  not  by  power.  Mr.  R.  G.  White  reads  persaunt-like, 
which  comes  much  nearer  both  the  sense  and  the  old  printing  of 
the  passage.  Piercingly  would  express  the  thought  well,  but 
would  be  too  great  a  modernizing  of  the  text.  Persant,  some- 
times spelled  persaunt,  is  an  old  word  used  by  Chaucer  and 
Spenser,  meaning  much  the  same  as  piercingly.  Thus,  in  the 
"Faerie  Queene,"  Book  iii.,  Canto  ix.,  Stanza  20: 

"  Like  sunny  beames, 

That  in  a  cloud  their  light  did  long  time  stay, 
Their  vapour  vaded,  shewe  their  golden  gleames, 
And  through  the  azure  aire  shoote  forth  their  persant  streames." 

Page  458. 

"Lie  in  the/of/  of  them  which  it  presents." 
The  old  copies  read,  "Dies  in  the  zeal,"  for  which  various  correc- 
tions have  been  offered.  The  present  reading  is  Singer's,  who 
justly  remarks  that  the  Poet  elsewhere  usesy«*7  for  failure.  The 
false  concord  of  them  which  and  presents  is  but  an  instance  of 
what  was  common  whenever  the  verse  required  it.  The  change 
is  so  clearly  demanded  by  the  sense  of  the  passage,  that  there 
needs  be  no  scruple  of  adopting  it. 

Page  466. 

"A  heavy  heartbeats  not  a  nimble  tongue." 
The  old.  reading  is  "  an  humble  tongue."    The  change,  first  sug- 
gested by  Theobald,  is  made  in  Collier's  folio,  and  is  fully  ap- 
proved by  the  context. 


THE    REVISED    EDITION.  XXXill 

Ibid. 

u  The  extreme  haste  of  time  extremely  forms." 
The  originals  have  parts  instead  of  haste.    The  correction  is  pro- 
posed by  Singer,  who  rightly  observes  that  the  context  requires  it. 

Ibid. 

"I  understand  you  not:  my  griefs  ari  dull." 
The  o!d  reading  is  double  instead  of  dull.    The  change,  from 
Collier's  folio,  is  not  quite  so  happy  as  Singer's  haste,  but  will  do. 
Double  expresses  nothing  that  fits  the  sense ;  dull  aptly  expresseg 
the  reason  why  the  Princess  could  not  understand  the  King. 


VOLUME    HI. 


AS  YOU  LIKE  IT. 

Page  186. 

"  Till  that  the  wearer's  very  means  do  ebb." 
The  original  has  "  weary  very  means,"  which  has  posed  all  the 
commentators,  till  Singer  suggested  the  present  reading,  and 
removed  all  the  difficulty  at  once.  This  is  one  of  the  happy 
instances  where,  the  right  change  being  at  last  proposed,  everv- 
body  wonders  it  was  not  hit  upon  before. 

Page  212. 

"  Are  horns  qiven  to  poor  men  alone  ?  " 

The  original  gives  the  passage  thus:  "  'Tis  none  of  his  own  get- 
ting; horns,  even  so  poor  men  alone."  Theobald  undertook  to 
mend  this  by  punctuation,  thus :  "  Horns  ?  Even  so :  —  Poor  men 
alone?"  which  reading  has  been  commonly  accepted.  ,  Collier'* 
folio  furnishes  the  present  reading,  which,  though  rather  bold, 
is  tha  best  that  has  been  offered,  while  it  does  no  more  violence 
to  the  original  than  Theobald's. 


XXXIV  ADDITIONAL    NOTES    TO 


ALL'S  WELL  THAT  E1TOS  WELL. 
Page  271. 

•'  Couni.  If  the  living  be  enemy  to  the  grief,  the  excess  soon 
makes  it  mortal." 

This  speech  rightly  belongs  to  the  Countess,  and  not  to  Helena, 
as  we  supposed,  being  misled  therein  by  Knight  and  Tieck.  The 
meaning  is,  "If  the  living  be  enemy  to  the  grief,  the  excess  of 
grief  soon  make  it  (the  grief )  fatal;  "  the  sense  of  mortal  more 
common  in  Shakespeare  than  the  one  it  now  bears.  To  express  the 
same  thought,  we  should  transpose  Living  and  grief.  The  speech  of 
Lafeu,  "  How  understand  we  that?  "  is  addressed  to  the  Countess, 
and  not  to  Bertram.  The  foot-note  in  loco  is  hereby  revoked. 

Page  285. 

"  Was  this  fair  face,  quoth  she,  the  cause 
Why  the  Grecians  sacked  Troy  ? 
Fond  done,  done  fond,  —  good  sooth  it  was, 
Was  this  king  Priam's  joy." 

In  the  original,  the  first  of  these  lines  is  transposed,  thus:  "was 
this  fair  face  the  cause,  quoth  she,"  in  the  third  the  words,  good 
sooth  it  was,  are  wanting,  and  the  whole  song  shockingly  mis- 
printed. The  corrected  form  here  given  is  from  Collier's  folio. 
The  Clown  is  fond  of  "  repeating  ballads,"  and  what  he  sings  in 
this  case  reads  like  an  old  ballad,  now  lost,  from  which  the  cor- 
rection may  have  been  made.  Warburton  added  the  words,/br 
Paris  he,  in  the  third  line,  and  has  been  generally  followed.  Fond 
done  is  foolishly  done,  and  Was  at  the  beginning  of  the  fourth  line 
is  merely  a  repetition  of  the  same  word  at  the  end  of  the  third. 

Page  323. 

"  Enter  the  DUKE  of  Florence,  attended ;  French  Envoy,  French 
Gentleman,  and  Soldiers.'11 

This  stage-direction,  and  some  of  the  prefixes  in  the  scene  follow- 
ing, are  clearly  wrong.  The  former  should  be,  "Enter  the  DUKE 
of  Florence,  attended;  two  French  Lords,  and  Soldiers,"  and  the 
prefixes  to  the  second  and  fourth  speeches  should  be,  "  1  Lord," 
•nd  that  of  the  sixth  speech  "2  Lord."  In  (he  original,  the 


THE    REVISED    EDITION.  XXXV 

entrances  of  these  two  persons,  and  their  prefixes,  are  inextri- 
cably confused  throughout  the  play,  as  may  be  seen  from  note  13 
page  357.  The  same  Lords  reappear  next  in  Act  iii.,  Scene  vi.. 
where  we  learn  that  they  are  brothers ;  one  of  them  reappears 
again  in  Act  iv.,  Scene  i. ;  and  both  again  in  Act  iv.,  Scene  iii. 
where  it  appears  that  their  names  are  Dumain,  and  that  they  are 
serving  as  captains  in  the  Florentine  army.  In  the  present  scene, 
the  person  introduced  as  "French  Envoy  "  speaks  in  a  way  wholly 
unsuited  to  any  one  bearing  such  a  character,  as  Mr.  R.  G.  Whit* 
has  clearly  shown.  On  this  point,  the  stage  directions  and  pre- 
fixes went  wrong  by  following  Collier's  edition  of  1842— t,  which 
distinguishes  them  as  "French  Envoy "  and  "French  Gentle- 
man," merely  because  the  original  introduces  them  as  "the  two 
Frenchmen,"  and  gives  them  the  prefixes  "French  E."  and 
"French  G."  Probably  the  original  designations  "E."  and 
"  G."  had  no  reference  to  the  persons  of  the  drama,  and  got  into 
the  text  merely  by  transference  from  the  theatrical  prompter's 
book. 

Page  382. 

"  Her  infinite  cunning  with  her  modern  grace." 
The  original  reads,  " Her  insuite  comming"  which  has  found  no 
adequate  interpreter.  In  fact,  none,  we  believe,  pretend  to  see 
any  meaning  in  it.  The  present  reading  was  lately  proposed  by 
Mr.  Sidney  Walker,  and  is  found  in  Collier's  folio.  It  is  gener- 
ally accepted. 


THE  TAMING  OF  THE  SHREW. 

Page  412. 

"  As  Stephen  Sly,  and  old  John  Naps  o'  the  Green." 
The  original  has  "John  Naps  of  Greece,"  which  has  received  no 
satisfactory  or  even  plausible  explanation.     Blackstone  is  said  to 
have  proposed  the  present  reading;  and  it  ought  to  have  been 
generally  accepted  before  now. 

Page  442. 

"No  such  load  as  you,  if  me  you  mean." 
The  old  copies  have  "No  such  jade  as  you."    The  present  read- 


XXXVI  ADDITIONAL    NOTES    TO 

ing  is  proposed  by  Singer,  who  justly  remarks  that  "  Petruchio's 
answer  shows  the  word  load  is  the  true  reading." 

Page  456. 

"His  horse  .  .  .  possessed  with  the  glanders,  and  likely  tc 
mown  in  the  chine." 

The  old  reading  is,  "like  to  mose  in  the  chine."  No  such  word 
as  mose  has  been  met  with  elsewhere,  and  nobody  can  imagine 
what  it  means.  Mr.  R.  G.  White,  in  his  "Supplementary  Notes," 
proposes  mourn,  and  sustains  it  with  the  following,  from  Urqu- 
hart's  translation  of  Rabelias,  Booki.,  Chap.  39:  "In  our  Abbey 
we  never  study  for  fear  of  the  mumps,  which  disease  in  horses  ia 
called  mounting  in  the  chine."  This  appears  to  settle  the  matter. 

Page  473. 

"  'Would  all  the  world  but  he  had  quite  forsworn  her." 
The  word  her  is  added  in  Collier's  folio,  and  is  so  evidently  neo- 
essary  to  the  sense,  that  there  needs  no  scruple  of  adopting  it. 

Page  486. 
"  I  thank  you,  sir.    Where,  then,  do  you  hold  best, 

We  be  affied." 

'Where,  then,  do  you  know  best,"  is  the  reading  of  the  old 
copies,  which,  to  say  the  least,  is  very  obscure.  Collier's  folio 
makes  the  change. 


VOLUME    IV. 


THE  WINTER'S  TALE. 

Page  28. 

"  From  heartiness,  from  bounty' &  fertile  bosom." 
The  original  has  "from  bounty,  fertile  bosom."    Malone  was  of 
opinion  that  the  letter  s  had  dropped  out,  and  Collier's  folio  sup- 
plies it.    Strange  that  so  easy  an  explanation  of  a  difficulty  should 
fiave  been  missed  so  long! 


THE    KK.VISKD    EDITION.  XXXVU 

Page  38. 

—  "when  he, 

Wafting  his  eyes  to  th'  contrary,  and  falling 
A  lip  of  much  contempt,  speeds  from  me ;  and 
So  leaves  me  to  consider  what  is  breeding, 
That  changes  thus  his  manners. 

"  Camilla.     I  dare  not  know,  my  lord." 

Such  is  the  common  punctuation  of  this  passage.  Perhaps  U 
should  be  thus: 

"A  lip  of  much  contempt,  speeds  from  me,  and 
So  leaves  me  to  consider.  What  is  breeding, 
That  changes  thus  his  manners?  "  &c. 

Page  40. 

"  Swear  this  thought  over." 

The  old  reading  is,  "  Swear  his  thought  over;  "  which  does  not 
cohere  at  all  with  what  goes  before.  The  change  ought  to  have 
been  received  at  Theobald's  suggestion,  without  waiting  for  Col- 
lier's discovery.  We  have  frequent  instances  of  his  and  this  mis- 
printed for  each  other.  The  present  reading,  though  perhaps  not 
altogether  clear  of  objections,  seems  to  us  much  better  than 
another  that  has  been  proposed:  "  Swear  this,  though,  orer." 

Page  71. 

"  Do  not  receive  affliction, 
At  my  petition,  I  beseech  you,  rather 
Let  me  be  punish'd." 

Such  is  clearly  the  right  punctuation  of  this  passage.  It  is  cooi- 
monly  given  without  any  point  after  "  affliction."  and  with  a  ( ;  * 
after"!  beseech  you."  "Do  not  receive  affliction  at  my  peti- 
tion," is  very  strange  English.  Besides,  Paulina  has  not  peti- 
tioned, and  does  not  petition,  to  have  the  King  afflicted :  she  here 
merely  begs  that  at  her  own  request  punishment  may  rather  light 
on  herself.  The  awkwardness  of  the  text  with  the  common  punc- 
tuation has  caused  several  changes  to  be  proposed.  Collier's  folia 
alters  petition  to  repetition,  and  Singer  suggests  relation.  Surely 
«o  change  is  needed  but  the  one  here  pointed  out. 


XXXV111  ADDITIONAL    NOTES    TO 

Page  74. 

"  Mercy  on's,  a  barn;  a  very  pretty  barn !    A  god,  or  a  child, 
[  wonder?" 

Instead  of  god,  the  original  has  boy,  which  has  been  a  standing 
puzzle  to  the  commentators;  and  their  explanations  even  more 
puzzling  than  the  reading  itself.  The  change  of  boy  to  god  v.  as 
suggested,  and  is  fully  approved,  by  the  corresponding  passage 
of  Greene's  novel :  "  The  sheepeheard,  who  before  had  never  scene 
so  faire  a  babe  nor  so  riche  jewels,  thought  assuredly  that  it  -was 
tome  little  god,  and  began  with  great  devocion  to  knock  on  his 
breast.  The  babe,  who  wrythed  with  the  head  to  seek  for  the 
pap,  began  againe  to  cry  afreshe,  whereby  the  poore  man  knew 
it  was  a  childe."  This  is  strictly  &  first-class  emendation,  at  once 
bold,  legitimate,  and  unobvious;  like  Theobald's  change  of  "a 
Tableof  green  fields"  to  '"a  babbled  of  green  fields."  Mr.  R.  G. 
\Vhite  is  the  author  of  it;  and  we  thank  him  for  it;  yes,  heartily. 

Page  94. 

"And  where  some  stretch-mouthed  rascal  would,  as  it  VTCFC, 
mean  mischief,  and  break  a  foul  jape  into  the  matter." 
The  original  has  gap  here  instead  of  jape,  which  is  the  reading  of 
Collier's  folio.  Jape  means  jest,  and  exactly  fits  the  sense.  The 
emendation  is  a  very  happy  one.  Yet  we  need  not  suppose  a 
misprint  in  the  original ;  for  in  the  Poet's  time  English  spelling 
was  to  a  great  extent  phonographic,  and  the  sound  of  certain  con- 
sonants, as  c,  <j,  and  tit,  unsettled;  so  that  jape  may  well  have 
been  spelt  gap. 

Page  119. 

"  Leon.  Heirless  it  hath  made  my  kingdom,  and 
Destroy'd  the  sweet'st  companion  that  e'er  man 
Bred  his  hopes  out  of. 

"  Paul.  True,  too  true,  my  lord." 

Such,  after  all,  is  clearly  the  right  ordering  of  the  passage,  the 
first  true  having  in  the  original  got  misplaced  from  the  beginning 
of  Paulina's  speech  to  the  end  of  Leontes'.  So  the  Editor  fairly 
backs  down  from  the  foot-note  in  loco. 


THE   REVISED    EDITION.  XXXIX 


THE  COMEDY  OF  ERRORS. 

Page  162. 

"  Though  gold  'bides  still 
The  triers'  touch,  yet  often  touching  will 
Wear  gold." 

Instead  of  "  The  triers'  touch,"  the  original  has,  "  That  others 
touch."  The  whole  passage  is  exceedingly  difficult,  being  so 
shabbily  printed  in  the  old  copies,  that  nothing  can  be  made  of 
it.  See  foot-note  in  loco.  The  present  reading  was  lately  pro- 
posed by  Singer. 

Page  174. 

"  Thou  wonld'st  have  chang'd  thy  face  for  a  name,  or  thy  name 

for  a  face." 

The  original  reads  an  ass  instead  of  a  face.    Both  sense  and 

rhyme  are  all  in  favour  of  the  change,  which  is  made  in  Collier's 

folio 

Page  179. 

"  And  as  a  bride  I'll  take  thee,  and  lie  there." 
Instead  of  bride,  the  original  has  bud,  which  has  sometimes  been 
changed  to  bed.   The  credit  of  the  present  reading  belongs  to  Mr. 
Howard  Staunton. 

Page  209. 

"  To  scotch  your  face,  and  to  disfigure  you." 
The  original  has  scorch  instead  of  scotch.    Mr.  Dyce,  who  pro- 
poses the  change,  points  out  that  the  folio  has  the  same  misprint 
in  "Macbeth,"  Act  iii.,  Scene  ii. :  "We  have  scotch1  d  the  snake, 
not  kill'd  it." 

Page  216. 

"And  thereupon  these  errors  all  arose." 

The  old  reading  is,  "  These  errors  are  arose."  The  change  ii 
made  in  Collier's  folio,  but  had  been  hit  upon  before  the  discovery 
of  that  volume. 


El  ADDITIONAL    NOTES    TO 

Page  217- 

"  After  so  long  grief,  such  festivity." 

Festivity  is  the  apt  suggestion  of  Singer,  for  nativity,  of  the  old 
copies.  The  change  is  fully  justified  by  the  context,  with  which 
nativity  cannot  be  made  to  fadge. 


THE  TRAGEDY  OF  MACBETH. 

Page  243. 

"  And  fortune,  on  his  damned  quarrel  smiling." 
fhe  original  reads  quarry,  -which  has  commonly  been  retained, 
with  an  explanation  which,  after  all,  does  not  accord  with  the 
meaning  of  the  passage.  The  present  reading,  which  was  pro- 
posed by  Johnson,  is  sustained  by  the  corresponding  passage  of 
Holinshed:  "  Out  of  the  western  isles  there  came  to  Macdowald 
a  great  multitude  of  people  to  assist  him  in  that  rebellious  quarrel." 
Quarrel  was  sometimes  used  in  the  sense  of  cause.  Thus,  ill 
Bacon's  Essay  of  Marriage  and  Single  Life :  "  A  man  may  have 
a  quarrel  to  marry,  when  he  will." 

Ibid. 

1  And  ne'er  shook  hands,  nor  bade  farewell  to  him." 
Instead  of  And,  the  original  has  Which,  the  word  having  proo- 
ably  got  repeated  from  the  fourth  line  above.    And  accords  per- 
fectly with  the  thought  of  the  passage ;  which  does  not.    The 
former  ought  to  have  been  generally  adopted  long  ago. 

Page  253. 

"  Give  me  your  favour." 

The  arrangement  of  the  verse  in  this  and  the  four  following  linei 
ought  to  be  thus : 

"  Give  me  your  favour:  my  dull  brain  was  wrought 
With  things  forgotten.  —  Kind  gentlemen,  your  pains 
Are  register' d  where  every  day  I  turn 
The  leaf  to  read  them.    Let  us  toward  the  King.  — " 


THE    REVISED    EDITION.  XII 

Page  262. 

"if  it  were  done  when  'tis  done,  then  'twere  well 
It  were  done  quickly:  if  the,"  &c. 

Such  is  the  punctuation  of  the  original,  and  also  of  most  of  the 
modern  editions.  A  change  has  been  proposed,  thus: 

"  1   it  were  done  when  'tis  done,  then  'twere  well. 
It  were  done  quickly  if  the  assassination,"  &c. 

This  punctuation  has  received  the  sanction  of  so  high  an  authority 
as  Mr.  R.  G.  White;  nevertheless  the  Editor  feels  bound  to  pro- 
test against  it;  and  he  ventures  to  think  that  Mr.  VVhite  got 
somewhat  entangled  in  his  own  subtleties  of  thought.  At  all 
events,  instead  of  saving  or  serving  either  the  logic  or  the  dignity 
of  the  passage,  as  he  urges,  it  seems  to  the  present  Editor  that  the 
change  only  mars  the  former  without  helping  the  latter.  The 
meaning  of  the  passage  as  it  stands,  may  be  rendered  something 
thus:  "  If  the  mere  doing  of  the  deed  were  to  be  the  end  of  it, 
then  the  quicker  it  were  done  the  better."  The  speaker  then 
goes  on  to  repeat,  in  other  language,  the  concessive  part  of  hia 
proposition:  "If  the  murder  could  stop  with  itself,  could  stand 
free  from  the  entail  of  consequences,  and  find  success  in  the  mere 
fact  of  Duncan's  decease."  But  now,  instead  of  coming  at  once 
to  the  concluding  part,  he  proceeds  to  intensify  his  thought  still 
further  by  another  variation  of  statement:  "If  only  this  one  blow 
might  be  the  last  of  it,  and  I  could  be  assured  its  violence  would 
not  recoil  upon  the  smiter,  here,  in  this  life."  Here  we  have  a 
natural,  forcible,  and  every  way  dignified  amplification  of  the 
thought;  and  the  speaker  now  comes  to  the  concluding  part:  "If 
all  this  could  be,  then  I  would  jump  the  life  to  come; "  that  is, 
risk  the  future  consequences  of  his  act.  At  first,  the  advantages  of 
instant  action  seem  to  be  uppermost  in  Macbeth's  thoughts;  but 
then,  no  sooner  has  he  said  this,  than,  by  a  natural  rebound,  he 
starts  off  upon  the  reasons  against  acting  at  all ;  apprehensions, 
both  moral  and  prudential,  forthwith  begin  to  swarm  upon  him ;  and 
his  mind,  gathering  momentum  as  it  proceeds,  becomes  more  and 
more  engrossed  with  these ;  till  at  last  the  thought  with  which  he 
started  is  fairly  beaten  down  by  the  natural  and  providential  haz- 
ards of  the  undertaking.  Thus  the  ethical  sense  of  the  passage  lies 
much  in  this,  that  the  very  effort  to  clinch  his  resolution  just  excite* 


Xlii  ADDITIONAL    NOTES    TO 

and  stimulates  his  large  imaginative  discourse  with  arguments 
against  it;  so  that  his  purpose  dies  for  the  present  in  the  fires 
which  itself  has  kindled.  The  received  punctuation  ought  by  no 
means  to  be  disturbed. 

Page  276. 

"  The  night  has  been  unruly." 

This  and  the  eight  following  lines  are  not  rightly  arranged  in  the 
text.  They  should  be  thus: 

"  The  night  has  been  unruly :  where  we  lay, 
Our  chimneys  were  blown  down,  and,  as  they  say, 
Lamentings  heard  i'the  air,  strange  screams  of  death: 
And,  prophesying  with  accents  terrible 
Of  dire  combustion  and  confus'd  events, 
New-hatch' d  to  th'  woful  time,  the  obscure  bird 
Clamour' u  the  livelong  night:  some  say  the  earth 
Was  feverous,  and  did  shake. 

"Macb.  'Twas  a  rough  night.** 

Page  284. 

"  Lay  your  highness' 
Command  upon  me." 

The  original  has  Let  instead  of  Lay.  The  change  is  from  Collier's 
folio.  It  is  more  than  "plausible,"  the  passage  being  hardly 
English  without  it,  or  something  like  it 

Page  286. 

"In  our  last  conference  pass'd  in  probation  with  yon." 
This  and  the  four  following  lines  are  wrongly  arranged  in  every 
text  with  which  the  Editor  is  acquainted.     They  should  be 
thus 

"  This  I  made  good  tc  you 
In  our  last  conference,  pass'd  in  probation 
With  you,  how  you  were  borne  in  hand;  how  cross" d; 
The  instruments ;  who  wrought  with  them ; 
And  all  things  else,  that  might  to  half  a  soul, 
And  to  a  notion  craz'd,  say,  '  Thus  did  Banquo.'  " 


THE    REVISED    EDITION. 

Page  294. 

"  ''Us  better  thee  without,  than  him  within." 
The  original  reads,  "than  he  within;"  which  gives  a  wrong 
sense.    Collier's  folio  makes  the  change. 

Page  310. 
"  Rebellion's  head  rise  never,  till  the  wood 

Of  Birnam  rise." 

The  original  has  Rebellious  dead  for  Rebellion's  head.  The  lattei 
word  was  corrected  long  ago;  the  other  change  is  from  Collier's 
folio.  Singer  thinks  "it  is  quite  evident  that  we  should  read 
Rebellion's  head;"  and  he  justly  remarks  that  "the  personifi- 
cation adds  much  to  the  effect  of  the  passage." 

Page  332. 

"  This  push 

Will  chair  me  ever,  or  disseat  me  now." 

The  original  has  cheer  instead  of  chair.  The  apt  correction  Is 
found  in  Collier's  folio,  and  the  use  of  disseat  ought  to  have  secured 
its  adoption  long  ago,  at  the  suggestion  of  Bishop  Percy.  Prob- 
ably cheer  is  but  a  phonographic  spelling  of  chair,  which  ap- 
pears to  have  been  pronounced  cheer  in  the  Poet's  tune. 

Page  335. 

"For  where  there  is  advantage  to  be  to' en." 
The  old  reading  is,  "advantage  to  be  given,"  the  word  having 
probably  got  repeated  from  the  line  below.    Walker  proposed  the 
change. 


KING   JOHN. 

Page  377. 

"  And  then  we  shall  repent  each  drop  of  blood 

That  hot  rash  haste  so  indiscreetly  shed." 

The  old  reading  is,  "indirectly  shed."  Indiscreetly  is  from  Col- 
lier's folio.  It  does  not  well  appear  how  "  hot  rash  haste  "  should 
act  indirectly. 


XUV  ADDITIONAL    NOTES    TO 

Page  392. 

"  That  daughter  there  of  Spain,  the  lady  Blanch, 

Is  niece  to  England." 

ffeere  of  the  old  copies,  spelt  near  in  modern  editions,  is  with 
abvious  propriety  changed  to  niece  in  Collier's  folio. 

Page  398. 

"  Hath  drawn  him  from  his  own  determin'd  aim." 
The  original  misprints  aid  for  aim.     Set  right  in  Collier's  folio. 

Page  406. 

"  In  likeness  of  a  new  unlrimmed  bride." 

Such  is  the  original  reading  of  this  much  disputed  passage.  Col- 
lier's folio  changes  untrimmed  to  up-trimmed,  and  Dyce  says  the 
change  is  right  "  beyond  the  possibility  of  a  doubt."  Notwith- 
standing this  weight  of  authority,  the  old  reading  is  certainly 
right.  Mr.  White  retains  it,  but  is  wrong  in  his  explanation  of  it. 
"An  untrimmed  bride,"  says  he,  "  is  a  bride  in  dishabille;  and 
in  some  such  condition  was  Blanche  on  account  of  her  unexpected 
nuptials,  and  the  haste  in  which  they  were  performed."  The 
truth  is,  an  untrimmed  bride,  in  the  language  of  the  old  dramatists, 
is  simply  a  virgin  bride,  as  the  passage  in  hand  was  explained 
long  ago.  The  meaning  of  untrimmed,  as  used  in  the  text,  is 
aptly  shown  in  "Titus  Andronicus,"  Act  v.,  Scene  i.: 

"  Aar.  They  cut  thy  sister's  tongue,  and  ravish' d  her, 
And  cut  her  hands,  and  trimin'd  her  as  thou  saw'st. 

"Luc.  O,  detestable  villain!  call'st  thou  that  trimming? 

"Aar.  Why,  she  was  wash'd,  and  cut,  and  trhnm'd;  and  'twas 
Trim  sport  for  them  that  had  the  doing  of  it." 

The  word  trim  and  its  derivatives  are  repeatedly  used  by  Beau- 
mont and  Fletcher  in  the  same  sense ;  and  once,  at  least,  by  Mas- 
singer. 

Page  414. 

"Sound  on  into  the  drowsy  ear  of  night." 

The  original  has  "  race  of  night."  That  race  was  a  misprint  for 
tar,  then  spelt  tare,  seems  probable  in  itself,  and  is  rendered  all 
but  certain  by  the  context.  Collier's  folio  makes  the  change,  and 
Dyce  aoproves  H 


THE    REVISED    EDITION.  xlv 

Page  440. 

"  We  will  not  line  his  sin-bestained  cloak." 
tin-bestained  is  the  happy  substitution  of  Collier's  folio  foi  thin 
ttestained. 

Page  447. 

"  Courage  I  and  run 

To  meet  displeasure  further  from  the  doors." 
Instead  of  Courage,  the  original  has  Forage,  which  can  hardly  be 
made  to  yield  any  appropriate  sense ;  and  the  attempts  that  have 
been  made  to  explain  it  in  harmony  with  the  context  seem  rather 
far-fetched. 

Ibid. 

"  Send  fair-play  offers,  and  make  compromise." 
The  old  reading  is  "  fair- play  orders."    Offers  gives  just  the  right 
sense,  and  might  easily  have  been  misprinted  orders.    Both  of 
these  changes  are  from  Collier's  folio;  as  is  also  the  following: 

Page  449. 

"  I  must  withdraw,  and  weep 
Upon  the  thought  of  this  enforced  cause." 

"Upon  the  spot"  is  the  old  reading;  doubtless  caused,  as  Mi. 
White  suggests,  by  thought's  being  written  tho't.  At  all  events, 
spot  is  all  wrong,  and  thought  all  right,  for  the  place. 


VOLUME    V. 


KING   RICHARD   H. 

Page  41. 

"It  boots  thee  not  to  be  so  passionate." 
The  old  copies  alJ  have  compassionate   instead  of  M  poss'onate 


XlVl  ADDITIONAL    NOTES    TO 

Compassionate  bore  no  such  meaning  in  the  Poet's  time  as  is  re- 
quired by  the  context.  The  correction  is  Singer's.  It  has  been 
proposed  to  read  "become  passionate." 

Page  10a. 

"Lest  children's  children  cry  against  you  —  woe!  " 
The  reading  of  all  the  old  copies  is,  "  Lest  child,  child' s  children 
cry;"  which  it  is  not  easy  to  believe  Shakespeare  could  have 
written.    The  correction  is  White's,  and  is  eminently  judicious. 


SECOND  PART  OF  KING  HENRY  IV. 
Page  329. 

"And  so  both  the  diseases  prevent  my  curses." 
The  old  copies  have  degrees  instead  of  diseases.    The  latter  is  so 
evidently  required  by  the  context,  that  we  may  well  wonder  the 
change  should  have  waited  for  Collier's  folio. 

Page  354. 

"  Grant  that,  my  pure  virtue,  grant  that." 
The  old  reading  is  "my  poor  virtue,"  which  does  not  seem  to 
smack  rightly  of  Sir  John  in  the  premises.    Both  Collier's  ami 
Singer's  copies  of  the  second  folio  make  the  change. 

Page  370. 

"  Then,  happy  lowly  clown  ! 
Uneasy  lies  the  head  that  wears  a  crown." 
Warburton's  correction  of  low  lie  down  to  lowly  clown  is  so  strongly 
recommended  by  the  sense  of  the  passage,  that  there  seems  no 
good  reason  why  it  should  not  be  accepted.    As  stated  in  the  note 
in  loco,  the  old  spelling,  lowlie,  might  easily  be  mistaken  for  low 
lie,  and  d  for  d. 

Page  388. 

"  Led  on  by  bloody  youth,  guarded  with  rags." 
The  old  copies  have  rage,  which  is  quite  at  odds  with  the  con- 
text.   The  change  was  proposed  by  Mr.  Sidney  Walker,  and  ia 
found  m  both  Collier's  and  Singer's  folios. 


THE    REVISED    EDITION. 

Page  397. 

"  Under  the  counterfeited  seal  of  God." 

Such  is  the  apt  correction  in  Collier's  folio  of  "  zeal  of  God."  The 
same  speaker  has  before  charged  the  Archbishop  with  abusing 
the  "seal  divine." 

Page  420. 

"And  all  my  friends,  which  thou  must  make  thy  friends." 
The  old  copies  have  "  thy  friends  "  in  both  parts  of  this  line.    The 
change,  evidently  right,  of  the  first  thy  to  my,  is  from  Collier's 
folio.    We  have  in  these  plays  many  instances  of  my  and  thy  mis- 
printed for  each  other. 


VOLUME    VI. 

FIRST   PART   OF   KING   HENRY   VI. 

•       Page  27. 

"  The  king  from  Eltham  I  intend  to  steal." 
The  old  reading  has  send  instead  of  steal.    The  latter,  besidei 
being  found  in  Collier's  folio,  is  in  accordance  with  the  facts  of 
the  case. 

Page  83. 

"  Let  heavens  have  glory  for  this  victory." 
The  original  has  Yet  instead  of  Let.    The  change  is  Dyce's,  and 
}»  evidently  right 

Page  107. 

"  But  if  I  fly,  they'll  say  it  was  for  fear." 

The  original  has  bow  instead  of  fly.  The  change  is  so  clearly 
required  by  the  context,  that  it  ought  not  to  have  waited  for  CoV 
tier's  folio. 


ADDITIONAL,    NOTES    TO 

Page  134. 

"The  hollow  passage  of  my  prisoned  voice." 
Prison'd  is  misprinted  poison'd  in  the  old  copies.     Strange  the 
correction  should  have  waited  for  Collier's  folio! 


SECOND    PART    OF    KING    HENRY    VI. 

Page  186. 

"  She's  tickled  now;  her  fury  needs  no  spurs, 

She'll  gallop  fast  enough  to  her  destruction." 
The  original  has  fume  instead  of  fury,  and  far  instead 
The  former  change  is  Dyce's,  and  is  exceedingly  happy;  the 
latter  is  from  Collier's  folio. 

Page  281. 

"Or  let  a  rebel  lead  you  to  your  deaths." 

So  in  both  Collier's  and  Singer's  copies  of  the  second  folio.  The 
old  reading  is  rabble  instead  of  rebel.  ,The  reference  is  clearly 
to  Cade,  who  leads  the  insurrection. 


THIRD   PART   OF   KING   HENRY   VL 

Page  334. 

"  Will  coast  my  crown,  and  like  an  empty  eagle 

Tire  on  the  flesh  of  me,  and  of  my  son  5 " 

Singer  shows  by  numerous  instances  that  to  coast  was  used  for 
to  pursue  or  hover  about  any  thing.  Thus,  in  the  Poet's  "  ^7enlls 
and  Adonis: "  "  All  in  haste  she  coasteth  to  the  cry."  The  word 
was  after  spelt  coste  or  cost ;  and  such  is  the  spelling  here,  both 
\n  ancient  and  in  modern  editions ;  but  the  sense  of  coast  as  thus 
explained  is  clearly  required  by  the  context. 


THE   REVISED    EDITION. 

Page  361. 

"  And  this  soft  carriage  makes  your  followers  faint." 
Instead  of  carriage,  the  old  copies  have  courage,  out  of  which  it 
ie  not  easy  to  get  any  legitimate  meaning.    The  change  is  from 
Collier's  folio.    The  same  misprint  occurd  In  "  Coriolanue,"  Ac? 
iii.,  Scene  iii. 

Page  438. 

"  Thou  and  thy  brother  both  shall  'by  this  treason 
Even  with  the  dearest  blood  your  bodies  bear." 
The  common  reading  has  buy  instead  of  'by,  an  error  small  in 
show  but  not  in  sense,  which  it  was  reserved  for  Mr.  White  to 
discover  and  correct.     The  word  in  the  text  is  aby,  with  one  syl- 
lable elided ;  and  aby  is  an  old  form  of  abide ;  so  that  to  aby  or 
Jby  a  thing  is  to  suffer  for  it  or  rue  it.     For  other  instances  of  th» 
word,  see  "  A  Midsummer-Night's  Dream,"  Act  iii.,  Scene  ii. 
notes  14,  23,  and  30. 


VOLUME  vn. 

TBOILUS   AND   CRESSIDA. 

Page  430. 

"And,  for  thy  vigour,  let 
Bull-bearing  Milo  his  addition  yield." 

The  word  let  is  wanting  in  all  the  old  copies.  It  was  lately  pro- 
posed by  Mr.  Sidney  Walker,  and  both  the  sense  and  the  verse 
approve  it. 


ADDITIONAL    NOTES    TO 


VOLUME    VIII. 


CORIOLANUS. 

Page  214. 

"Battles  thrice  six 

I  have  seen,  and  heard  of:  for  your  voices, 
Have  done  many  things,  some  less,  some  more. 
Your  voices:  indeed,  I  would  be  consul." 

These  lines,  as  Professor  Craik  has  pointed  oat,  are  not  rightly 
arranged  in  any  of  the  editions.  They  should  be  thus: 

"  Battles  thrice  six 

I  have  seen,  and  heard  of:  for  your  voices  have 
Done  many  things,  some  less,  gome  more.    Your  voices  i 
Indeed,  I  would  be  consul." 

Page  218. 

"  The  apprehension  of  his  present  portance 

Which  most  gibingly,  ungravely,  he  did  fashion." 
Here,  again,  the  arrangement  should  be  thus: 

"  The  apprehension  of  his  present  portance,  which 
Most  gibingly,  ungravely,  he  did  fashion." 

Page  267. 

"  We  hear  not  of  him,  neither  need  we  fear  him; 
His  remedies  are  tame.     The  present  peace 
And  quietness  o'  the  people,  which  before 
Were  in  wild  hurry,  here  do  make  his  Ihends 
Blush  that  the  world  goes  well." 

This  reading  and  punctuation  are  White's,  and  are  evidently 
right.  As  given  in  the  original,  and  in  all  other  modern  editions, 
the  passage  is  full  of  obscurity,  and  indeed  comes  pretty  neat 
being  nonsense. 


THE    REVISED    EDITION.  II 

Page  276. 

"And  power,  unto  itself  most  commendable, 
Hath  not  a  tomb  so  evident  as  a  hair 
T  extol  what  it  hath  done." 

'Coriolanus"  is  specially  trying  to  an  editor,  more  so,  perhaps, 
than  any  other  play  of  the  series;  partly  because  it  is  so  badly 
printed  in  the  original,  and  partly  because  the  versification  is  so 
irregular;  while  the  general  cast  of  the  workmanship  is  in  the 
Poet's  highest  style.  Many  editors  have  toiled  over  this  passage, 
but  without  any  tolerable  result  hitherto.  The  original  has  chair 
instead  of  hair,  and  chair  probably  ought  to  be  retained  till  some- 
thing better  is  hit  upon  than  has  yet  been  proposed.  Mr.  White 
keeps  to  the  original  text,  but  his  explanation  really  does  nothing 
towards  making  it  satisfactory.  The  passage  is,  no  doubt,  cor- 
rupt, perhaps  incurably  so.  The  present  Editor  has  no  suggestion 
to  offer,  except  that  the  corruption,  whatever  it  be,  may  extend 
over  tomb,  as  well  as  over  evident  and  chair. 


VOLUME    IX. 


CTMBELINE. 

Page  27. 

"  Dear  lady  daughter,  peace !  —  Sweet  sovereign, 
Leave  us  to  ourselves;  and  make  yourself  some  comfort 
Out  of  your  best  advice." 

The  arrangement  of  this  passage  is  wrong  in  every  edition  known 
to  the  Editor.    It  should  be  as  follows: 

"  Dear  lady  daughter,  peace !  —  Sweet  sovereign,  leave 
Us  to  ourselves,  and  make  yourself  some  comfort 
Out  of  your  best  advice." 


ili  ADDITIONAL   NOTES   TO 


KING   LEAK. 

Page  525. 

"  Our  means  secure  us,  and  our  mere  defects 

Prove  our  commodities." 

This  passage  is  not  rightly  explained  in  the  note  in  loco.  Secure 
is  here  used  in  the  Latin  sense  of  securus.  So  that  the  meaning  is, 
''Prosperity  causes  us  to  feel  secure;  "  that  is,  makes  us  negli- 
gent or  careless. 

Page  533. 

"You  have  seen 

Sunshine  and  rain  at  once ;  her  smiles  and  tears 
Were  like:  —  a  better  way;  those  happy  smilets, 
That  play'd  on  her  ripe  lip,  seem'd  not  to  know 
What  guests  were  in  her  eyes." 

A  wrong  punctuation  of  this  passage  hitherto  has  occasioned  a 
good  deal  of  needless  tampering  with  it.  Even  Mr.  White,  whose 
ear  is  one  of  the  truest,  and  whose  judgment  one  of  the  clearest, 
adopts  Malone's  reading,  —  "  Were  like  a  better  May ; "  which, 
besides  rendering  the  passage  more  obscure,  is  a  slight  lapse 
towards  the  prosaic.  "  You  have  seen  sunshine  and  rain  at  once, 
her  smiles  and  tears  were  like.' '  Here  the  expression  of  the  thought 
is  completed  at  like :  her  smiles  and  tears  were  like,  not  "  a  better 
day,"  as  Theobald  would  have  it,  nor  "a  wetter  May,"  as  War- 
burton  would  have  it;  nor  "  a  better  May,"  as  Malone  and  White 
would  have  it;  but  simply  "like  sunshine  and  rain  at  once." 
And  the  speaker  then  goes  on  to  change  the  figure,  expressing 
his  idea  in  another  and,  as  he  thinks,  a  better  way. 


Page  534. 

"  There  she  shook 

The  holy  water  from  her  heavenly  eyes, 
And,  clamour-moisten'  d,  then  away  sne  started 
To  deal  with  grief  alone." 
Here,  again  we  are  indebted  to  Mr.  White  for  a  welcome  item  of 


THE    BE  VIS  ED    EDITION.  liii 

relief  by  a  skilful  use  of  punctuation.  The  passage  is  commonly 
printed  with  a  (;)  after  moisten'd;  which  makes  that  woid  a 
predicate,  and  clamour  the  subject  of  it.  By  putting  a  ( , )  after 
And,  and  a  (, )  after  moisten'd,  " clamour-moisten'd "  subsides 
into  a  mere  qualifying  epithet;  not  very  elegant  or  happy  indeed, 
but  still  much  better  than  as  commrnly  given. 


Copy  of  the,   Title-Page  to  the  Folio  of  1623. 

MB.  WIU,IAM  SHAKESPEARE'S  Comedies,  Histories 
and  Tragedies :  Published  according  to  the  True 
Original  Copies.  London :  Printed  by  Isaac  Jag- 
gard  and  Ed.  Blount.  1623. 

In  the  centre  of  the  same  page  is  a  head  of  Sliake- 
spcare,  engraved  by  Droeshout  ;  and  on  a,  fly-leaf  next 
to  this  are  the  following  lines  by  Ben  Jonson. 

To  THE  READER. 

This  Figure,  that  thou  here  seest  put, 
It  was  for  gentle  Shakespeare  cut ; 
Wherein  the  Graver  had  a  strife 
With  Nature,  to  outdo  the  life. 
O,  could  he  but  have  drawn  his  wit 
As  well  in  brass,  as  he  hath  hit 
His  face  !  the  Print  would  then  surpass 
All  that  was  ever  writ  in  brass. 
But,  since  he  cannot,  Reader,  look 
Not  on  his  Picture,  but  bis  Book. 

RL 


In 


List  of  Actors  prefixed  to  the  same  edition. 
THE  WORKS  OF  WILLIAM  SHAKESPEARE 

CONTAINING  ALL  HIS   COMEDIES,  HISTORIES,  ANB 

TRAGEDIES  :  Truly  set  forth,  according  to  theii 
first  Original.1 

The  Names  of  the  Principal  Actors  in  all  these  Plays 


William  Shakespeare. 
Richard  Burbadge. 
John  Hemmings. 
Augustine  Phillips. 
William  Kempt. 
Thomas  Poope. 
George  Bryan. 
Henry  Condell. 
William  Slye. 
Richard  Cowly. 
John  Lowine. 
Samuell  Crosse. 
Alexander  Cooke. 


Samuel  Gilburne. 
Robert  Armin. 
William  Ostler. 
Nathan  Field. 
John  Underwood. 
Nicholas  Tooley 
William  Ecclestone. 
Joseph  Taylor. 
Robert  Benfield. 
Robert  Goughe. 
Richard  Robinson. 
John  Shancke. 
John  Rice. 


1  This  heading  precedes  the  list  of  the  Actors  in  the  first  four 
folio  editions.  The  names  here,  as  in  all  the  rest  of  this  iniro 
ductory  matter,  are  spelt  precisely  as  in  the  original.  a 


liii 


DEDICATION. 
Prefixed  to  the  folio  of  1623. 

To  the  most  noble  and  incomparable  pair  of 
Brethren  :  William a  Earl  of  Pembroke,  &c.  Lord 
Chamberlain  to  the  King's  most  excellent  Majesty 

*  This  was  William  Herbert,  thought  by  some  to  be  the  "  Mr. 
W.  H."  to  whom  the  Poet's  Sonnets  were  inscribed,  as  "  the  only 
begetter  of  these  ensuing  Sonnets."  Of  this  nobleman  Lord  Clar 
endou  writes,  — "  He  was  the  most  universally  loved  and  esteemed 

of  any  man  of  that  age And  as  he  had  a  great  number  of 

friends  of  the  best  men,  so  no  man  had  ever  the  wickedness  to 
avow  himself  to  be  his  enemy.  He  was  a  man  of  excellent  parts, 
and  a  graceful  speaker  upon  any  subject,  having  a  good  propor- 
tion of  learning,  and  a  ready  wit  to  apply  it,  and  enlarge  upon  it ; 
of  a  pleasant  and  facetious  humour,  and  a  disposition  affable, 

generous  and  magnificent. He  lived  many  years  about 

the  court,  before  in  it;  and  never  by  it. After  the  foul 

fall  of  Somerset,  he  was  made  lord  chamberlain  of  the  king's 
house,  more  for  the  court's  sake  than  his  own  ;  and  the  court  ap- 
peared with  the  more  lustre,  because  he  had  the  government  of  that 
province.  As  he  lived  upon  his  own  fortune,  so  he  stood  upon 
his  own  feet,  without  any  other  support  than  of  his  proper  virtue 
and  merit He  was  exceedingly  beloved  in  the  court,  be- 
cause he  never  desired  to  get  that  for  himself,  which  others 
laboured  for,  but  was  still  ready  to  promote  the  pretences  of  wor- 
thy men As  his  conversation  was  most  with  men  of  the 

most  pregnant  parts  and  understanding,  so  towards  any,  who 
needed  support  or  encouragement,  though  unknown,  if  fairly  rec- 
ommended to  him,  he  was  very  liberal He  was  master  of 

a  great  fortune  from  his  ancestors,  and  had  a  great  addition  by  his 
wife,  for  which  he  paid  much  too  dear,  by  taking  her  person  into 
the  bargain :  but  all  served  not  his  expense,  which  was  only  lim- 
ited by  his  great  mind,  and  occasions  to  use  it  nobly.  .  .  .  .  Yet 
his  virtues  and  good  inclinations  were  clouded  with  great  infirmi- 
ties, which  he  had  in  too  exorbitant  a  proportion.  He  indulged 

to  himself  the  pleasures  of  all  kinds,  almost  in  all  excesses 

To  these  he  sacrificed  himself,  his  precious  time,  and  much  of  hii 

fortune  ; and  died  of  an  apoplexy,  after  a  full  and  cheer 

fill  supper."  H 


I  nil  THE    EPISTLE    DEDICATORY. 

And  Philip  3  Earl  of  Montgomery,  &c.  Gentle- 
man of  his  Majesty's  Bed-chamber :  Both  Knights 
of  the  most  noble  Order  of  the  Garter,  and  our 
singular  good  Lords. 

Right-Honourable,  — 

Whilst  we  study  to  be  thankful,  in  our  particular,  foi 
the  many  favours  we  have  received  from  your  Lordships, 
we  are  fallen  upon  the  ill  fortune,  to  mingle  two  the  most 
diverse  things  that  can  be, fear,  and  rashness;  rashness  in 
the  enterprise,  and  fear  of  the  success.  For,  when  we 
value  the  places  your  Highnesses  sustain,  we  cannot  out 
know  their  dignity  greater  than  to  descend  to  the  reading 
of  these  trifles;  and,  while  we  name  them  trifles,  we  have 
depriv'd  ourselves  of  the  defence  of  our  Dedication.  But, 
since  your  Lordships  have  been  pleas'd  to  think  these 
trifles  something  heretofore ;  and  have  prosecuted  both 
them,  and  their  Author  living,  with  so  much  favour ;  we 
hope  that  —  they  outliving  him,  and  he  not  having  the  fate, 
common  with  some,  to  be  executor  to  his  own  writings 
—  you  will  use  the  like  indulgence  toward  them,  you  have 
done  unto  their  parent.  There  is  a  great  difference, 
whether  any  book  choose  his  patrons,  or  find  them :  This 
hath  done  both.  For,  so  much  were  your  Lordships'  lik- 
ings of  the  several  parts,  when  they  were  acted,  as  before 


*  This  was  Philip  Herbert,  a  younger  brother  of  William,  and 
succeeded  to  him  as  Earl  of  Pembroke  and  Montgomery  ;  though 
as  different  from  him  as  darkness  from  light.  Southey  justly  pro- 
nounces him  "  one  of  the  meanest  wretches  that  ever  broug?  t  in- 
famy upon  an  old  and  honourable  name."  He  afterwards  became 
one  of  Cromwell's  vilest  footlickers ;  and  for  his  servility  to  that 
faction  of  the  Commons  which  abolished  all  the  government  bat 
themselves,  and  the  great  usurper  who  in  turn  abolished  them, 
Mr.  Hallam  says  :  "  The  Earl  of  Pembroke,  basest  among  the 
base,  condescended  to  sit  in  the  House  of  Commons  as  knight  for 
the  county  of  Berks ;  and  was  received,  notwithstanding  his  pro- 
verbial meanness  and  stupidity,  with  such  excessive  honour  as 
displayed  the  character  of  those  low-minded  upstarts."  H 


THE    EPISTLE    DEDICATORY.  llX 

tney  were  published  the  volume  ask'd  to  be  yours.  We 
have  but  collected  them,  and  done  an  office  to  the  dead,  to 
procure  his  Orphans  Guardians,  without  ambition  either 
of  self-profit  or  fame ;  only  to  keep  the  memory  of  so 
worthy  a  Friend  and  Fellow  alive,  as  was  our  SHAKE- 
SPEARE, by  humble  offer  of  his  plays  to  your  most  noble 
patronage.  Wherein,  as  we  have  justly  observed  no  man 
to  come  near  your  Lordships,  but  with  a  kind  of  religious 
address,  it  hath  been  the  height  of  our  care,  who  are  the 
Presenters,  to  make  the  present  worthy  of  your  Highnesses 
by  the  perfection.  But  there  we  must  also  crave  our  abili- 
ties to  be  consider^,  my  Lords.  We  cannot  go  beyond 
our  own  powers.  Country  hands  reach  forth  milk,  cream, 
fruits,  or  what  they  have;  and  many  Nations,  we  have 
heard,  that  had  not  gums  and  incense,  obtained  their  re- 
quests with  a  leavened  Cake.  It  was  no  fault  to  approach 
their  Gods  by  what  means  they  could:  And  the  most, 
though  meanest,  of  things  are  made  more  precious,  when 
they  are  dedicated  to  Temples.  In  that  name,  therefore, 
we  most  humbly  consecrate  to  your  Highnesses  these 
remains  of  your  servant  SHAKESPEARE  ;  that  what  delight 
is  in  them  may  be  ever  your  Lordships',  the  reputation 
his,  and  the  faults  ours,  if  any  be  committed  by  a  pair  so 
careful  to  show  their  gratitude  both  to  the  living,  and  the 
dead,  as  is 

Your  Lordships'  most  bounden, 

JOHN  HEMINBE. 

HENKT  CONDELL. 
I 


kl) 


By  way  of  preface  to  the  edition  of  1623  toas  the 

following  Address. 

TO   THE    GREAT    VARIETY    OF    READERS, 

Prom  the  most  able  to  him  that  can  but  spell :  There 
you  are  numberM.  We  had  rather  you  were  weigh'd: 
especially,  when  the  fate  of  all  books  depends  upon  your 
capacities ;  and  not  of  your  heads  alone,  but  of  your  purses. 
Well !  it  is  now  public,  and  will  stand  for  your  privileges, 
we  know ;  to  read,  and  censure.  Do  so,  but  buy  it  first : 
that  doth  best  commend  a  book,  the  Stationer  says.  Then, 
how  odd  soever  your  brains  be,  or  your  wisdoms,  make 
your  license  the  same,  and  spare  not.  Judge  your  six- 
pen'orth,  your  shilling's  worth,  your  five  shillings'  worth 
at  a  time,  or  higher,  so  you  rise  to  the  just  rates,  and  wel- 
come. But,  whatever  you  do,  buy.  Censure  will  not 
drive  a  Trade,  nor  make  the  Jack  go.  And  though  you 
be  a  Magistrate  of  wit,  and  sit  on  the  stage  at  Blackfriars, 
or  the  Cock-pit,  to  arraign  plays  daily,  know,  these  plays 
have  had  their  trial  already,  and  stood  out  all  appeals; 
and  do  now  come  forth  quitted  rather  by  a  decree  of  court, 
than  any  purchas'd  letters  of  commendation. 

It  had  been  a  thing,  we  confess,  worthy  to  have  been 
wished,  that  the  Author  himself  had  liv'd  to  have  set  forth, 
and  overseen  his  own  writings :  But  since  it  hath  been  or- 
dain'd  otherwise,  and  he  by  death  departed  from  that  right, 
we  pray  you  do  not  envy  his  Friends  the  office  of  their 
care  and  pain,  to  have  collected  and  publish'd  them; 
and  so  to  have  publish'd  them,  as  where,  before,  you 
were  abos'd  with  divers  stolen  and  surreptitious  copies, 
maimed  and  deformed  by  the  frauds  and  stealths  of  in- 


Ixii  ADDRESS    TO    THE    READERS. 

jurious  impostors,  that  expos'd  them ;  even  those  are 
now  offer'd  to  your  view  cur'd,  and  perfect  of  their 
limbs;  and  all  the  rest  absolute  in  their  numbers,  as 
he  conceived  them :  Who,  as  he  was  a  happy  imitator  of 
Nature,  was  a  most  gentle  expresser  of  it  His  mind  and 
hand  went  together;  and  what  he  thought,  he  uttered 
with  that  easiness,  that  we  have  scarce  received  from  him 
a  blot  in  his  papers.  But  it  is  not  our  province,  who  only 
gather  his  works,  and  give  them  you,  to  praise  him :  it  ia 
yours  that  read  him.  And  there  we  hope,  to  your  divers 
capacities  you  will  find  enough  both  to  draw,  and  hold 
you :  for  his  wit  can  no  more  lie  hid,  than  it  could  be  lost 
Read  him,  therefore ;  and  again,  and  again :  and  if  then 
you  do  not  like  him,  surely  you  are  in  some  manifest  dan- 
ger not  to  understand  him.  And  so  we  leave  you  to  other 
of  his  Friends,  whom  if  you  need,  can  be  your  guides :  if 
you  need  them  not,  you  car  lead  yourselves  and  others 
And  such  Readers  we  wish  him. 

JOHN  HEMINGE. 

HKNRIE  CONDELI,. 


(    kill) 

COMMENDATORY    VERSES. 

Prefixed  to  the  folio  of  1623. 
To  the  Memory  of  my  beloved,  the  Author,  Mr 
WILLIAM  SHAKESPEARE,  and  what  he  hath  left  us. 

To  draw  no  envy,  Shakespeare,  on  thy  name, 
Am  I  thus  ample  to  thy  book  and  fame ; 
While  I  confess  thy  writings  to  be  such 
As  neither  man,  nor  muse,  can  praise  too  much : 
'Tis  true,  and  all  men's  suffrage.     But  these  ways 
Were  not  the  paths  I  meant  unto  thy  praise : 
For  silliest  ignorance  on  these  may  light, 
Which,  when  it  sounds  at  best,  but  echoes  right ; 
Or  blind  affection,  which  doth  ne'er  advance 
The  truth,  but  gropes,  and  urgeth  all  by  chance ; 
Or  crafty  malice  might  pretend  this  praise, 
And  think  to  ruin,  where  it  seem'd  to  raise : 
These  are,  as  some  infamous  bawd,  or  whore 
Should  praise  a  matron :  What  could  hurt  her  more  ? 
But  thou  art  proof  against  them ;  and,  indeed, 
Above  the  ill  fortune  of  them,  or  the  need. 
I,  therefore,  will  begin :  —  Soul  of  the  age, 
The  applause,  delight,  the  wonder  of  our  stage, 
My  Shakespeare,  rise !  I  will  not  lodge  thee  by 
Chaucer,  or  Spenser ;  or  bid  Beaumont  lie 
A  little  further,  to  make  thee  a  room : 
Thou  art  a  monument  without  a  tomb ; 
And  art  alive  still,  while  thy  book  doth  live, 
And  we  have  wits  to  read,  or  praise  to  give. 
That  I  not  mix  thee  so,  my  brain  excuses ; 
I  mean,  with  great  but  disproportion'd  muses : 
For,  if  I  thought  my  judgment  were  of  years, 
[  should  commit  thee  surely  with  thy  peers ; 


XIV  COMMENDATORY    VERSES. 

And  tell  how  far  thou  didst  our  Lily  outshine, 

Or  sporting  Kid,  or  Marlowe's  mighty  line : 

And  though  thou  hadst  small  Latin,  and  less  Greek1 

From  thence  to  honour  thee,  I  would  not  seek 

For  names ;  but  call  forth  thundering  Eschylus, 

Euripides,  and  Sophocles,  to  us, 

Pacuvius,  Accius,  him  of  Cordova  dead, 

To  life  again,  to  hear  thy  buskin  tread, 

And  shake  a  stage :  or,  when  thy  socks  were  on, 

Leave  thee  alone  for  the  comparison 

Of  all  that  insolent  Greece,  or  haughty  Rome, 

Sent  forth,  or  since  did  from  their  ashes  come. 

Triumph,  my  Britain  !  thou  hast  one  to  show, 

To  whom  all  scenes  of  Europe  homage  owe 

He  was  not  of  an  age,  but  for  all  time ! 

And  all  the  muses  still  were  in  their  prime, 

When  like  Apollo  he  came  forth  to  warm 

Our  ears,  or  like  a  Mercury  to  charm. 

Nature  herself  was  proud  of  his  designs, 

And  joy'd  to  wear  the  dressing  of  his  lines ; 

Which  were  so  richly  spun,  and  woven  so  fit, 

As  since  she  will  vouchsafe  no  other  wit. 

The  merry  Greek,  tart  Aristophanes, 

Neat  Terence,  witty  Plautus,  now  not  please ; 

But  antiquated  and  deserted  lie, 

As  they  were  not  of  Nature's  family. 

Yet  must  I  not  give  Nature  all :  thy  art, 

My  gentle  Shakespeare,  must  enjoy  a  part: 

For  though  the  poet's  matter  nature  be, 

His  art  doth  give  the  fashion ;  and  that  he, 

Who  casts  to  write  a  living  line,  must  sweat, 

(Such  as  thine  are,)  and  strike  the  second  heat 

Upon  the  muses'  anvil ;  turn  the  same, 

(And  himself  with  it,)  that  he  thinks  to  frame ; 


COMMEND ATOKY    VERSES.  IX V 

Or  for  the  laurel  he  may  gain  a  scorn, 

For  a  good  poet's  made,  as  well  as  born : 

And  such  wert  thou.     Look,  how  the  father's  (ace 

Lives  in  his  issue ;  even  so  the  race 

Of  Shakespeare's  mind,  and  manners,  brightly  shines 

In  his  well-turned  and  true-filed  lines ; 

In  each  of  which  lie  seems  to  shake  a  lance, 

As  brandish'd  at  the  eyes  of  ignorance. 

Sweet  Swan  of  Avon,  what  a  sight  it  were, 

To  see  thee  in  our  waters  yet  appear ; 

And  make  those  flights  upon  the  banks  of  Thames, 

That  so  did  take  Eliza,  and  our  James  ! 

But  stay  ;  I  see  thee  in  the  hemisphere 

Advanc'd,  and  made  a  constellation  there : 

Shine  forth,  thou  star  of  poets !  and  with  rage, 

Or  influence,  chide,  or  cheer,  the  drooping  stage ; 

Which  since  thy  flight  from  hence  hath  mourn'd 

like  night, 
And  despairs  day,  but  for  thy  volume's  light ! 

BEN  JONSON. 

Ti)  tlie.  Memory  of  the  deceased  Author,  MASTER 
WILLIAM  SHAKESPEARE. 

Shakespeare,  at  length  thy  pious  fellows  give 
The  world  thy  works ;  thy  works,  by  which  outlive 
Thy  tomb  thy  name  must :  when  that  stone  is  rent, 
And  time  dissolves  thy  Stratford  monument, 
Here  we  alive  shall  view  thee  still :  this  book, 
When  brass  and  marble  fade,  shall  make  thee  look 
Fresh  to  all  ages ;  when  posterity 
Shall  loathe  what's  new,  think  all  is  prodigy 
That  is  not  Shakespeare's,  every  line,  each  verse, 
Here  shall  revive,  redeem  thee  from  thy  hearse. 
Nor  fire,  nor  cankering  age,  as  Naso  said 
Of  his,  thy  wit-fraught  book  shall  once  invade- 


IXVI  COMMENDATORY    VERSES. 

Nor  shall  I  e'er  believe  or  think  thee  dead, 

Though  miss'd,  until  our  bankrout  stage  be  sped 

(Impossible)  with  some  new  strain  t'  outdo 

Passions  of  Juliet,  and  her  Romeo; 

Or  till  I  hear  a  scene  more  nobly  take, 

Than  when  thy  half-sword  parleying  Romans  ?pak*» 

Till  these,  till  any  of  thy  volume's  rest, 

Shall  with  more  fire,  more  feeling,  be  express'd, 

Be  sure,  our  Shakespeare,  thou  canst  never  die, 

But,  crown'd  with  laurel,  live  eternally. 

L.    DlGGKS. 

To  the  Memory  of  MR.  W.  SHAKESPEARE. 

We  wonder'd,  Shakespeare,  that  thou  went'st  so  soon 
From  the  world's  stage  to  the  grave's  tiring-room : 
We  thought  thee  dead ;  but  this  thy  printed  worth 
Tells  thy  spectators,  that  thou  went'st  but  forth 
To  enter  with  applause.     An  actor's  art 
Can  die,  and  live  to  act  a  second  part : 
That's  but  an  exit  of  mortality, 
This  a  re-entrance  to  a  plaudite.  I.  M.5 

Upon  the  Lines  and  Life  of  the  famous  Scenic  Poet, 
MASTER  WILLIAM  SHAKESPEARE. 

Those  hands,  which  you  so  clapp'd,  go  now  and  wring, 
You  Britons  brave ;  for  done  are  Shakespeare's  days : 
His  days  are  done,  that  made  the  dainty  plays, 

Which  made  the  Globe  of  heaven  and  earth  to  ring. 

Dried  is  that  vein,  dried  is  the  Thespian  spring, 

4  The  sense  of  this  line  is  more  clearly  expressed  in  some  verses 
by  the  same  author,  prefixed  to  an  edition  of  Shakespeare's  Po- 
ems in  1640. 

"  So  have  I  seen,  when  Caesar  would  appear, 
And  on  the  stage  at  half-sword  parley  were 
Brutus  and  Cassius,  O,  how  the  audience 
Were  ravish'd !  with  what  wonder  they  weit  thence  !  " 

H 

1  Supposed  to  be  the  initials  of  John  Maritoc  H. 


COMMENDATORY    VERSES. 

Turn'd  all  to  tears,  and  Phoebus  clouds  his  rays ; 
That  corpse,  that  coffin,  now  bestick  those  bays, 

Which  crown'd  him  poet  first,  then  poet's  king 
If  tragedies  might  any  prologue  have, 

All  those  he  made  would  scarce  make  one  to  this 
Where  fame,  now  that  he  gone  is  to  the  grave, 

(Death's  public  tiring-house,)  the  Nuntius  is : 
For,  though  his  line  of  life  went  soon  about, 
The  life  yet  of  his  lines  shall  never  out. 

HUGH  HOLLAICD. 

ADDITIONAL  COMMENDATORY  VERSES, 
Prefixed  to  the  folio  of  1632. 

Upon  the  Effigies  of  my  worthy  Friend,  the  Author^ 
MASTER  WILLIAM  SHAKESPEARE,  and  his   Works. 

Spectator,  this  life's  shadow  is :  —  to  see 
This  truer  image,  and  a  livelier  he, 
Turn  reader.    But  observe  his  comic  vein, 
Laugh ;  and  proceed  next  to  a  tragic  strain, 
Then  weep:  so,  —  when  thou  find'st  two  contraries, 
Two  different  passions  from  thy  rapt  soul  rise,  — 
Say,  (who  alone  effect  such  wonders  could,) 
Rare  Shakespeare  to  the  life  thou  dost  behold. 

An  Epitaph  on  the  admirable  Dramatic  Poet. 
W.  SHAKESPEARE  8 

What  needs  my  Shakespeare,  for  his  hoiiour'il  bones 

The  labour  of  an  age  in  piled  stones ; 

Or  that  his  hallow'd  reliques  should  be  hid 

Under  a  star-ypointing  pyramid  ? 

Dear  son  of  Memory,  great  heir  of  Fame, 

What  need'st  thou  such  weak  witness  of  thy  name  \ 

9  The  authorship  of  these  lines  was  ascertained  by  their  appear- 
jut;  in  an  edition  of  Milton's  Poems,  published  in  1645.  a. 


IXVIII  COMMENDATORY    VERSES. 

Thou,  in  our  wonder  and  astonishment, 

Hast  huilt  thyself  a  live-long  monument : 

For  whilst,  to  the  shame  of  slow-endeavouring  art, 

Thy  easy  numbers  flow ;  and  that  each  heart 

Hath,  from  the  leaves  of  thy  unvalued  book, 

Those  Delphic  lines  with  deep  impression  took  ; 

Then  thou,  our  fancy  of  itself  bereaving, 

Dost  make  us  marble  with  too  much  conceiving  ; 

And,  so  sepulcher'd,  in  such  pomp  dost  lie, 

That  kings  for  such  a  tomb  would  wish  to  die. 

On  worthy  MASTER  SHAKESPEARE, 
And  his  Poems. 

A  mind  reflecting  ages  past,  whose  clear 

And  equal  surface  can  make  things  appear,  — 

Distant  a  thousand  years,  —  and  represent 

Them  in  their  lively  colours,  just  extent : 

To  outrun  hasty  time,  retrieve  the  fates, 

Roll  back  the  heavens,  blow  ope  the  iron  gates 

Of  Death  and  Lethe,  where  confused  lie 

Great  heaps  of  ruinous  mortality  : 

In  that  deep  dusky  dungeoii  to  discern 

A  royal  ghost  from  churls ;  by  art  to  learn 

The  physiognomy  of  shades,  arid  give 

Them  sudden  birth,  wondering  how  oft  they  live  : 

What  story  coldly  tells,  what  poets  feign 

At  second  hand,  and  picture  without  brain, 

Senseless  and  soul-less  shows,  to  give  a  stage,  — 

Ample,  and  true  with  life,  —  voice,  action,  age, 

As  Plato's  year,  and  new  scene  of  the  world, 

Them  unto  us,  01  us  to  them  had  hurl'd : 

To  raise  our  ancient  sovereigns  from  their  hearse, 

Make  kings  his  subjects  ;  by  exchanging  verse 

Enlive  their  pale  trunks,  that  the  present  age 

loys  in  their  joy,  and  trembles  at  their  rage  ; 


COMMENDATORY    VERSES.  IXU 

Vet  so  to  temper  passion,  that  our  ears 

Take  pleasure  in  their  pain,  and  eyes  in  tears 

Both  weep  and  smile  ;  fearful  at  plots  so  sad, 

Then  laughing  at  our  fear ;  abus'd,  and  glad 

To  be  abus'd ;  affected  with  that  truth 

Which  we  perceive  is  false,  pleas'd  in  that  luth 

At  which  we  start,  and,  by  elaborate  play, 

Tortur'd  and  tickled ;  by  a  crab-like  way 

Time  past  made  pastime,  and  in  ugly  sort 

Disgorging  up  his  ravin  for  our  sport :  — 

—  While  the  plebeian  imp,  from  lofty  throne, 

Creates  and  rules  a  world,  and  works  upon 

Mankind  by  secret  engines ;  now  to  move 

A  chilling  pity,  then  a  rigorous  love ; 

To  strike  up  and  stroke  down  both  joy  and  ire 

To  steer  the  affections ;  and  by  heavenly  fire 

Mould  us  anew,  stolen  from  ourselves  :  — 

This,  —  and  much  more,  which  cannot  be  express  d 

But  by  himself,  his  tongue,  and  his  own  breast,  — 

Was  Shakespeare's  freehold ;  which  his  cunning  brain 

Improv'd,  by  favour  of  the  nine-fold  train  ; 

The  buskin'd  muse,  the  comic  queen,  the  grand 

And  louder  tone  of  Clio,  nimble  hand 

And  nimbler  foot  of  the  melodious  pair, 

The  silver-voiced  lady,  the  most  fair 

Calliope,  whose  speaking  silence  daunts, 

And  she  whose  praise  the  heavenly  body  chants. 

These  jointly  woo'd  him,  envying  one  another,  — 
Obey'd  by  all  as  spouse,  but  lov'd  as  brother,  — 
And  wrought  a  curious  robe,  of  sable  grave, 
Fresh  green,  and  pleasant  yellow,  red  most  brave. 
And  constant  blue,  rich  purple,  guiltless  white, 
The  lowly  russet,  and  the  scarlet  bright : 
Branch'd  and  embroider'd  like  the  painted  spring? 
Each  leaf  match'd  with  a  flower,  and  each  string 


1XX  COMMENDATORY    VERSES. 

Of  golden  wire,  each  line  of  silk  :  there  run 
Italian  works,  whose  thread  the  sisters  spun ; 
And  there  did  sing,  or  seem  to  sing,  the  choice 
Birds  of  a  foreign  note  and  various  voice  : 
Here  hangs  a  mossy  rock ;  their  plays  a  fair 
But  chiding  fountain,  purled :  not  the  air, 
Nor  clouds,  nor  thunder,  but  were  living  drawn ; 
Not  out  of  common  tiffany  or  lawn, 
But  fine  materials,  which  the  muses  know, 
And  only  know  the  countries  where  they  grow. 
Now,  when  they  could  no  longer  him  enjoy, 
In  mortal  garments  pent,  —  death  may  destroy, 
They  say,  his  body ;  but  liis  verse  shall  live, 
And  more  than  nature  takes  our  hands  shall  give : 
In  a  less  volume,  but  more  strongly  bound, 
Shakespeare  shall  breathe  and  speak ;  with  laurel 

crown'd, 

Which  never  fades  ;  fed  with  ambrosian  meat ; 
In  a  well-lined  vesture,  rich  and  neat :  — 
So  with  this  robe  they  clothe  him,  bid  him  wear  it ; 
For  time  shall  never  stain,  nor  envy  tear  it. 

The  friendly  admirer  of  his  endowments, 

I.  M.  S.7 

7  What  name  these  initials  may  stand  for,  lias  not  been  as- 
certained. So  that  the  authorship  of  this  great  little  poem, — 
perhaps  the  noblest  tribute  ever  paid  by  one  human  being  to 
another, —  is  still  involved  in  mystery.  Mr.  Collier,  a  good  au- 
thority, says, —  and  Mr.  Verplanck,  a  better,  endorses  him,— 
"  I.  M.  S.  may  possibly  be  John  Milton,  Student.  We  know  of 
no  other  poet  of  the  time  capable  of  writing  the  lines.  We  feel 
morally  certain  that  they  are  by  Milton."  And,  sure  enough, 
Milton  is  the  only  man  of  that  time  who  has  left  any  similar  marks. 
And  the  initials  may  well  enough  be  supposed  to  extend  over  this 
and  the  preceding  piece.  It  may  indeed  be  urged  that  if  such 
were  the  case  the  latter  would  naturally  have  appeared  among 
his  Poems  in  1645.  But  perhaps  it  is  a  sufficient  answer  to  this, 
that  in  1632  Milton  was  not  too  much  a  Puritan  tc  write  such 
lines  ;  whereas  in  1645  he  was  too  far  committed  that  way  to  pu' 
them  forth  as  his.  U 


(^  Ixxi  ) 

LIST   OF  PLAYS' 
Prefixed  to  the  folio  of  1623. 

A  CATALOGUE  of  the  several  Comedies,  Histories, 
and  Tragedies  contained  in  tliis  VoJume. 

COMEDIES. 

The  Tempest. 

The  Two  Gentlemen  of  Verona. 

The  Merry  Wives  of  Windsor. 

Measure  for  Measure. 

The  Comedy  of  Errors. 

Much  Ado  about  Nothing 

Love's  Labour's  Lost. 

A  Midsummer-Night's  Dreaiu. 

The  Merchant  of  Venice. 

As  You  Like  It. 

The  Taming  of  The  Shrew. 

All's  Well  That  Ends  Well. 

Twelfth  Night,  or  What  You  Will. 

The  Winter's  Tale. 

HISTORIES. 

The  Life  and  Death  of  King  John. 
The  Life  and  Death  of  Richard  the  Second. 
The  First  Part  of  King  Henry  the  Fourth. 
The  Second  Part  of  King  Henry  the  Fourth. 
The  Life  of  King  Henry  the  Fifth. 


ORIGINAL.    LIST    OF    THE    PLAYS. 

The  First  Part  of  King  Henry  the  Sixth. 
The  Second  Part  of  King  Henry  the  Sixth 
The  Third  Part  of  King  Henry  the  Sixth. 
The  Life  and  Death  of  Richard  the  Third. 
The  Life  of  King  Henry  the  Eighth. 

TRAGEDIES. 

Troilus  and  Cressida.8 

The  Tragedy  of  Coriolanus. 

Titus  Andronicus. 

Romeo  and  Juliet. 

Timon  of  Athens. 

The  Life  and  Death  of  Julius  Caesar. 

The  Tragedy  of  Macbeth. 

The  Tragedy  of  Hamlet. 

King  Lear. 

Othello  the  Moor  of  Venice. 

Anthony  and  Cleopatra. 

Cyrabeline  King  of  Britain. 

9  Not   set  down   in  tl.e   Catalogue,  though   included  in  t 
•dmoa.  H. 


INTRODUCTION 


THE    TEMPEST. 


THE  TEMPEST  was  first  printed  in  the  folio  of  1623,  in  which 
edition  it  stands  the  first  of  the  series.  As  this  play  was  undoubt- 
edly written  in  the  later  years  of  the  Poet's  life,  the  reason  of  iti 
standing  first  is  not  apparent.  Nor  is  it  much  more  apparent 
why  the  arrangement  of  that  edition  should  be  broken  up,  until 
more  is  known  of  the  order  in  which  Shakespeare's  plays  were 
written. 

The  play  was  originally  printed  with  great  accuracy  for  the 
time  :  the  true  reading  is  seldom  doubtful ;  for  which  cause  com- 
mentators have  not  often  found  it  easy  to  mar  the  text  under  the 
notion  of  improving  it. 

It  has  been  ascertained  clearly  enough  that  The  Tempest  was 
written  somewhere  between  1603  and  1612.  That  it  was  written 
after  the  former  date,  is  rendered  almost  certain  in  that  the  lead- 
ing features  of  Gonzalo's  commonwealth  were  plainly  taken  from 
Florio's  translation  of  Montaigne,  which  was  printed  that  year. 
The  passage  of  Montaigne  is  given  in  a  note,  from  which  the 
reader  may  see  that  the  resemblance  is  too  close  to  have  been 
accidental.  If  any  see  fit  to  maintain,  as  some  have  done,  that 
Shakespeare  might  have  seen  the  passage  in  question  before  it 
was  printed,  we  will  not  argue  with  them  ;  our  concern  being  with 
facts,  not  with  possibilities. 

The  Tempest  was  performed  at  Court,  «  by  the  King's  Players," 
Nov.  1,  1611.  This  fact  was  but  lately  discovered ;  and  for  the 
discovery  we  are  indebted  to  "  Extracts  from  the  Accounts  of  the 
Revels  at  Court,"  edited  by  Mr.  Cunningham  for  the  Shakespeare 
Society  ;  where  the  following  memorandum  occurs  :  "  Hollowmas 
nig^ht  was  presented  at  Whitehall  before  the  King's  Majesty  a 
play  called  The  Tempest."  Until  this  discovery  the  earliest 
known  performance  of  the  play  was  in  "  the  beginning  of  the  year 
1613,"  when,  as  Malone  proved  from  Vertue's  MSS.,  it  was  acted 


2  THE    TEMPEST. 

t>y  "  the  King's  company  before  Prince  Charles,  the  Princess 
Elizabeth,  and  the  Prince  Palatine."  So  ihai  the  play  n;usi  needs 
have  been  written  before  1612. 

As  to  any  nearer  fixing  of  the  date  we  have  nothing  to  go  upon 
but  probabilities.  Some  of  these,  however,  are  pretty  strong 
From  the  "  Extracts  '  already  quoted  it  appears  that  eleven  other 
plays,  Winter's  Tale  being  one  of  them,  were  acted  at  Court 
within  a  year  after  the  last  of  Oct.  1611,  the  oldest  of  which,  so 
far  as  hath  been  ascertained,  had  not  been  written  more  than  three 
years.  From  which  it  seems  probable  that  The  Tempest  was 
not  then  an  old  play;  and  perhaps  it  was  selected  by  the  Mas- 
ter of  the  Revels  for  its  novelty  and  its  popularity  on  the  public 
stage. 

Ben  Jonson's  Bartholomew  Fair  was  first  acted  in  1614,  and 
written  perhaps  the  year  before ;  the  Induction  of  which  has  an 
apparent,  though  not  necessarily  ill-natured  glance  at  both  The 
Tempest  and  Winter's  Tale :  "  If  there  be  never  a  Servant-mon- 
ster i'  the  Fair,  who  can  help  it,  he  says  ;  nor  a  nest  of  Antiques  ? 
He  is  loth  to  make  Nature  afraid  in  his  Plays,  like  those  that 
beget  Tales,  Tempests,  and  such  like  Drolleries."  We  agree 
with  Mr.  Collier  that  some  of  the  words  in  Italic,  which  we  give 
just  as  they  stand  in  the  original,  are  "  so  applicable  to  The  Tem- 
pest, that  they  can  hardly  refer  to  any  thing  else."  Which  seems 
to  warrant  the  inference  that  Bartholomew  Fair  was  written  while 
The  Tempest  and  Winter's  Tale  were  yet  in  the  morn  and  blush 
of  popular  favour. 

It  can  hardly  be  questioned  that  Shakespeare  drew  some  of  his 
materials  for  The  Tempest  from  the  sources  thus  indicated  by 
Malone :  "  Sir  George  Somers,  Sir  Thomas  Gates,  and  Captain 
Newport,  with  nine  ships  and  five  hundred  people,  sailed  from 
England  in  May,  1609,  on  board  the  Sea  Venture,  which  was 
tailed  the  Admiral's  Ship;  and  on  the  25th  of  July  she  was 
parted  from  the  rest  by  a  terrible  tempest,  which  lasted  forty- 
eight  hours,  and  scattered  the  whole  fleet,  wherein  some  of  them 
lost  their  masts,  and  others  were  much  distressed.  Seven  of  the 
vessels,  however,  reached  Virginia ;  and,  after  landing  about 
three  hundred  and  fifty  persons,  again  set  sail  for  England. 
During  a  great  part  of  the  year  1610  the  fate  of  Somers  and 
Gates  was  not  known  in  England  ;  but  the  latter,  having  been  sent 
home  by  Lord  Delaware,  arrived  in  August  or  September."  In 
1610  "  one  Jourdan,  who  probably  returned  from  Virginia  in  the 
same  ship  with  Sir  Thomas  Gates,  published  a  pamphlet,  entitled 
'  A  Discovery  of  the  Bermudas,  otherwise  called  The  Isle  of 
Devils.'"  In  this  book,  after  relating  the  circumstances  of  theii 
shipwreck,  the  author  says  :  "  But  our  delivery  was  not  more 
strange  in  falling  so  opportunely  and  happily  upon  land,  than  our 
feeding  and  provision  was,  beyond  our  hopes  and  all  men's  ex- 
jactations,  most  admirable.  For  the  Islands  of  the  Hermit  la* 


INTRODUCTION.  3 

as  every  man  knoweth,  that  hath  heard  or  read  of  them,  were 
never  inhabited  by  any  Christian  or  Heathen  people,  but  ever 
esteemed  and  reputed  a  most  prodigious  and  inchanted  place, 
affording1  nothing  but  gusts,  storms,  and  foul  weather ;  which 
made  every  navigator  and  marhier  to  avoid  them  as  Scylla  and 
Charybdis,  or  as  they  would  shun  the  Devil  himself:  and  no  man 
was  ever  heard  to  make  for  this  place  ;  but  as,  against  their  wills, 
they  have,  by  storms  and  dangerousness  of  the  rocks  lying  seven 
leagues  into  the  sea,  suffered  shipwreck.  Yet  did  we  find  there 
the  air  so  temperate,  and  the  country  so  abundantly  fruitful  of  all 
fit  necessaries  for  the  sustentation  and  preservation  of  man's  life, 
that  notwithstanding  we  were  there  for  the  space  of  nine  months, 
we  were  not  only  well  refreshed,  comforted,  and  with  good  satiety 
contented,  but  out  of  the  abundance  thereof  provided  us  some 
reasonable  quantity  of  provision  to  carry  us  for  Virginia,  and  to 
maintain  ourselves  and  that  company  we  found  there."  Some- 
what later  the  Council  of  Virginia  put  forth  a  narrative  of  "  the 
disasters  which  had  befallen  the  fleet,  and  of  their  miraculous 
fcscape,"  wherein  they  say  :  "  These  Islands  of  the  Bermudas  have 
ever  been  accounted  an  inchanted  pile  of  rocks,  and  a  desert  in- 
habitation for  devils ;  but  all  the  fairies  of  the  rocks  were  but 
flocks  of  birds,  and  all  the  devils  that  haunted  the  woods  wer<» 
but  herds  of  swine." 

The  words  in  Italic  may  suggest  a  probable  explanation  of 
some  points  in  the  play.  It  is  hardly  needful  to  add,  that  the 
Poet's  "  still-vex'd  Bermoothes  "  seems  to  link  his  work  in  some 
way  with  Jourdan's  narrative.  So  that  it  is  not  easy  to  see  how 
an  earlier  date  can  be  assigned  for  The  Tempest  than  1610.  The 
supernatural  in  the  play  was  undoubtedly  the  Poet's  own  work ; 
but  it  had  been  in  strict  keeping  with  his  usual  method  to  avail 
himself  of  whatsoever  interest  may  have  sprung  from  the  popular 
notions  touching  the  Bermudas.  In  his  marvellous  creations  the 
people  of  course  would  see  nothing  but  the  distant  marvels  with 
which  their  fancies  were  prepossessed. 

Concurrent  with  this  external  evidence  is  the  internal  evidence 
of  the  play  itself.  The  style,  language,  and  general  tone  of 
thought,  the  union  of  richness  and  severity,  the  grave,  austere 
beauty  of  character  that  pervades  it,  and  the  organic  compact- 
ness of  its  whole  structure,  all  go  to  mark  it  as  an  issue  of  the 
Poet's  ripest  years.  Mr.  Collier  says  that  Coleridge,  in  his  lec- 
tures, "  spoke  of  The  Tempest  as  certainly  one  of  Shakespeare's 
latest  works,  judging  from  the  language  only ; "  and  Schlegel, 
probably  for  similar  reasons,  was  of  the  same  opinion.  Campbell, 
the  poet,  supposes  it  to  have  been  his  very  latest  work  :  "  The 
Tempest  has  a  sort  of  sacredness,  as  the  last  work  of  a  mighty 
workman.  Shakespeare,  as  if  conscious  that  it  would  be  his  last 
and  as  if  inspired  to  typify  himself,  has  made  his  hero  a  natural 
a  dignified,  and  benevolent  magician,  who  could  conjure  up 


4  THE    TEMPEST. 

'spirits  from  tho  vasty  deep,'  and  command  supernatural  agency 
by  the  most  seemingly  natural  and  simple  means.  Shakespeara 
himself  is  Prospero,  or  rather  the  superior  genius  who  commands 
both  Prospero  and  Ariel.  But  the  time  was  approaching  when 
the  potent  sorcerer  was  to  break  his  staff,  and  bury  it  fathoms  in 
the  ocean,— 

'  Deeper  than  did  ever  plummet  sound.' 

That  staff  has  never  been  and  will  never  be  recovered."  But 
there  is  more  of  poetry  than  of  truth  in  this  statement;  at  least 
we  have  no  warrant  for  it :  whereas,  besides  the  improbability 
that  Shakespeare  would  pass  the  last  six  years  of  his  life  entirely 
aloof  from  the  wonted  play  of  his  faculties,  —  besides  this,  there 
is  good  ground  for  believing  that  at  least  Coriolanus,  Cymbeline, 
and  perhaps  Winter's  Tale,  were  written  after  The  Tempest.  Mr. 
Verplanck,  a  critic  of  rare  taste  and  judgment,  rather  than  give 
op  the  notion  so  well  put  by  Campbell,  conjectures  that  the  Poet 
may  have  revised  The  Tempest  after  all  his  other  plays  were 
written,  and  inserted  the  passage  where  Prospero  abjures  his 
"  rough  magic,"  and  buries  his  staff,  and  drowns  his  book.  But 
we  cannot  believe  that  Shakespeare  had  any  reference  to  himself 
in  that  passage  ;  for,  besides  that  he  evidently  did  not  use  to  put 
his  own  feelings  and  purposes  into  the  mouth  of  his  characters, 
his  doing  so  in  this  case  would  fairly  infer  such  a  degree  of  self- 
exultation  as,  it  seems  to  us,  his  native  and  habitual  modesty 
would  hardly  permit. 

No  play  or  novel  has  been  discovered,  to  which  Shakespeare 
could  have  been  indebted  for  the  plot  or  matter  of  The  Tempest. 
Thomas  Warton  indeed  tells  a  curious  story,  how  Collins  during 
his  mental  aberration  said  he  had  seen  an  Italian  Romance,  called 
Aurelio  and  Isabella,  which  contained  the  story  of  The  Tempest. 
But  Collins  was  afterwards  found  to  be  mistaken,  there  being  no 
such  matter  in  that  Romance;  and  though  the  poor  crazed  poet 
may  have  put  one  name  for  another,  it  seems  more  likely  that  in 
the  disorder  of  his  mind  his  recollections  of  The  Tempest  itself 
got  mixed  up  with  other  matter.  Mr.  Collier  says  :  "  We  have 
turned  over  the  pages  of,  we  believe,  every  Italian  novelist  aute- 
rior  to  the  age  of  Shakespeare,  in  hopes  of  finding  some  story 
containing  traces  of  the  incidents  of  The  Tempest,  hut  without 
success."  So  that  the  notion  started  by  Collins  probably  may  as 
well  be  given  up. 

What  may  be  the  issue  of  another  notion  started  since,  is  not 
10  clear.  Mr.  Thorns  informs  us  through  the  New  Monthly 
Magazine  of  Jan.  1841,  that  Jacob  Ayrer,  a  notary  of  Nuremberg, 
was  the  author  or  translator  of  thirty  plays,  published  in  1618. 
He  is  quite  confident  that  Shakespeare  derived  his  idea  of  The 
Tempest  from  a  play  of  Ayrer's,  called  The  Beautiful  Sidea 
But  besides  that  the  resemblances,  even  as  stated  by  Mr.  Thorns, 


INTRODUCTION.  u 

are  so  sl.ght  or  of  such  a  kind  as  hardly  to  infer  any  connection 
between  them,  there  appears  nothing1  to  hinder  that  Ayrer's  plaj 
may  have  been  indebted  to  The  Tempest,  it  being  quite  certain 
that  some  English  dramas  were  known  in  Germany  at  that  early 
period.  The  whole  matter  indeed  is  much  too  loose  for  us  to 
build  any  conclusion  upon. 

There  is  an  old  ballad  called  The  Inchanted  Island,  which 
was  once  thought  to  have  contributed  something  towards  The 
Tempest.  But  it  is  now  generally  allowed  to  be  more  modern 
lhan  the  play,  and  probably  founded  upon  it ;  the  names  and  some 
points  of  the  story  being  varied,  as  if  on  purpose  to  hide  its  con- 
nection with  a  work  that  was  popular  on  the  stage.  In  the  ballad 
no  locality  is  given  to  the  Island  :  on  the  contrary  we  are  told  : 

u  From  that  daie  forth  the  isle  has  beene 
By  wandering  sailors  never  scene  : 

Some  say,  'tis  buryed  deepe 
Beneath  the  sea,  which  breakes  and  rores 
Above  its  savage  rocky  shores, 

Nor  e'er  is  known  to  sleepe." 

Wherefore,  we  shall  probably  have  to  rest,  for  the  present,  in 
the  belief  that  in  the  case  of  The  Tempest  Shakespeare  drew 
from  no  external  source  but  the  one  already  mentioned. 

There  has  been  considerable  discussion  of  late  years  as  to  the 
scene  of  The  Tempest.  A  wide  range  of  critics,  from  dull  Mr. 
Chalmers  to  eloquent  Mrs.  Jameson,  have  taken  for  granted  thai 
the  Poet  fixed  the  scene  of  his  drama  in  the  Bermudas.  For  thin 
they  seem  not  to  have  had  nor  desired  any  authority  but  his  men 
lion  of  "  the  still-vex'd  Bermoothes."  Ariel's  trip  from  "  the 
deep  nook  to  fetch  dew  from  the  still-vex'd  Bermoothes  "  does 
indeed  show  that  the  Bermudas  were  in  the  Poet's  mind :  but  then 
it  also  shows  that  his  scene  was  not  there ;  for  it  had  been  no 
feat  at  all  worth  mentioning  for  Ariel  to  fetch  dew  from  one  part 
of  the  island  to  another.  On  the  other  hand,  Mr.  Hunter  is  very 
positive  that  if  we  read  the  play  with  a  map  before  us,  (only 
think  of  it !  reading  The  Tempest  with  a  map  ! )  we  shall  bring 
up  at  the  island  of  Lampedusa,  which  "  lies  midway  between 
Malta  and  the  African  coast."  He  will  hardly  tolerate  any  other 
notion :  "  What  I  contend  for  is  the  absolute  claim  of  Lampedusa 
to  have  been  the  island  in  the  Poet's  mind  when  he  drew  the 
scenes  of  this  drama."  Mr.  Hunter  makes  out  a  pretty  strong 
case,  nevertheless  we  must  be  excused ;  not  so  much  that  we 
positively  reject  his  theory,  as  that  we  simply  do  not  care  whether 
it  be  right  or  not.  But  if  we  must  have  any  supposal  about  it 
the  most  reasonable  as  well  as  most  poetical  one  seems  to  be 
that  the  Poet,  writing  without  a  map,  placed  his  scene  upon  an 
.stand  of  the  mind,  that  his  readers  might  not  have  to  go  away  from 


0  THE    TEMPEST. 

nomo  to  learn  the  truth  of  his  representation;  and  that  it  suited  ht< 
purpose  to  transfer  to  his  ideal  whereabout  some  of  tho  wonders 
and  marvels  of  trans-Atlantic  discovery.  We  should  as  soon 
think  of  going  to  history  for  the  characters  of  Ariel  and  Caliban, 
as  of  going  to  geography  for  the  size,  locality,  or  whatever  else, 
of  their  dwellir.g-place.  . 

"  The  Tempest,"  says  Coltridge,  "  is  a  specimen  of  the  purely 
romantic  dra*ma,  in  which  the  interest  is  not  historical,  or  dependent 
upon  fidelity  of  portraiture,  or  the  natural  connection  of  events,— 
hut  a  birth  of  the  imagination,  and  rests  only  on  the  coaptation 
and  union  of  the  elements  granted  to,  or  assumed  by,  the  Poet. 
It  is  a  species  of  drama  which  owes  no  allegiance  to  time  or 
space,  and  in  which,  therefore,  errors  of  geography  and  chronol- 
ogy, —  no  mortal  sins  in  any  species,  —  are  venial  faults,  and 
count  for  nothing." 

In  these  remarks  of  the  great  critic  there  is  but  one  point  from 
which  we  should  at  all  dissent.  We  cannot  quite  agree  that  the 
drama  is  purely  romantic.  Highly  romantic  it  certainly  is,  in  its 
wide,  free,  bold  variety  of  character  and  incident,  in  its  many- 
shaded,  richly-diversified  perspective,  in  all  the  qualities  indeed 
that  enter  into  the  picturesque  ;  yet  not  romantic  in  such  a  sort,  we 
think,  but  that  it  is  at  the  same  time  equally  classic  ;  classic,  not 
only  in  that  the  unities  of  time  and  place  are  strictly  observed, 
but  as  having  the  other  qualities  which  naturally  follow  and  cleave 
to  these  laws  of  the  classic  form  ;  in  its  solemn  thought,  its  severe 
beauty,  and  majestic  simplicity,  its  matchless  interfusion  of  the 
lyrical  and  the  ethical,  and  in  the  mellow  atmosphere  of  serenity 
and  composure  which  hovers  over  and  envelops  it :  as  if  on  pur- 
pose to  show  the  Poet's  mastery,  not  only  of  both  the  classic  and 
the  romantic  drama,  but  of  the  common  nature  out  of  which  both 
of  them  grew,  and  in  which  both  are  reconciled.  This  union  of 
both  kinds  in  one  without  any  hindrance  to  the  distinctive  qualities 
of  either, — this  it  is,  we  think,  that  chiefly  distinguishes  The  Tem- 
pest from  the  Poet's  other  dramas.  Some  have  thought  that  in 
this  play  Shakespeare  studiously  undertook  to  silence  the  pedantic 
cavillers  of  his  time,  by  showing  that  he  could  keep  to  the  rules 
of  the  Greek  stage,  if  he  chose  to  do  so,  without  being  any  the  lesa 
himself.  But  it  seems  more  likely  that  he  was  here  drawn  into  such 
a  course  by  the  workings  of  his  wise  spirit  than  by  the  cavils  of 
contemporary  critics ;  the  form  appearing  too  cognate  and  con- 
genial with  the  matter  to  have  been  dictated  by  any  thing  acci- 
dental or  external  to  the  work  itself. 

There  are  some  points  that  naturally  suggest  a  comparison  be- 
tween The  Tempest  and  A  Midsummer-Night's  Dream.  In  both 
the  Poet  has  with  equal  or  nearly  equal  success  carried  nature,  as 
it  were,  beyond  her  established  limits,  and  peopled  a  purely  ideal 
region  with  the  power  and  life  of  reality,  so  that  the  character! 
«eem  like  substantive  personal  beings,  which  he  has  but  d 


INTRODUCTION.  7 

not  created ;  but  beyond  this  the  resemblance  ceases  :  indeed 
no  two  of  his  plays  are  more  tvidely  different  in  all  other 
respects. 

The  Tempest  presents  a  combination  of  elements  apparently 
*o  incongruous  that  we  cannot  but  marvel  how  they  were  brough 
and  kept  together ;  yet  thejj  blend  so  sweetly  and  work  together 
»o  naturally  that  we  at  once  feel  at  home  with  them,  and  see  noth- 
ing to  hinder  their  union  in  the  world  of  which  we  are  a  part. 
For  it  seems  hardly  more  than  a  truism  to  say,  that  in  the  mingling 
of  the  natural  and  the  supernatural  there  is  here  no  gap,  no  break  • 
nothing  disjointed  or  abrupt ;  the  two  being  drawn  into  each  other 
so  smoothly,  and  so  knit  together  by  mutual  participations,  that 
each  seems  but  a  continuation  of  the  other,  and  the  place  where 
they  meet  and  join  is  marked  by  no  distinguishable  line. 

Prospero,  standing  in  the  centre  of  the  whole,  acts  as  a  kind 
of  subordinate  Providence,  reconciling  the  diverse  elements  to 
himself,  and  in  himself  to  one  another.  Though  armed  with 
supernatural  might,  so  that  the  winds  and  waves  obey  him,  his 
magical  and  mysterious  powers  are  tied  to  truth  and  right}  his 
"  high  charms  work "  only  to  just  and  beneficent  ends  ;  and 
whatsoever  might  be  repulsive  in  the  magician  is  softened  and 
made  attractive  by  the  virtues  of  the  man  and  the  feelings  of  the 
father :  Ariel  links  him  with  the  world  above  us,  Caliban  with  (lie 
world  beneath  us,  and  Miranda  •'  (thee,  my  dear  one  !  thee,  my 
daughter  ! )  "  with  the  world  around  and  within  us.  And  the  mind 
acquiesces  in  the  miracles  attributed  to  him,  his  thoughts  and  aims 
being  so  at  one  with  nature's  pree'stablished  harmonies  as  to  leave 
it  doubtful  whether  he  controls  her  movements  or  falls  in  with 
them.  His  sorcery  indeed  is  the  sorcery  of  knowledge,  his 
magic  the  magic  of  virtue;  for  what  so  marvellous  as  the  in- 
ward, vital  necromancy  of  good,  which  transmutes  the  wrongs 
that  are  done  him  into  motives  of  beneficence,  and  is  so  far  from 
being  hurt  by  the  powers  of  Evil  that  it  turns  their  assaults  into 
new  sources  of  strength  against  them  !  And  with  what  a  smooth 
tranquillity  of  spirit  he  every  where  speaks  and  acts !  as  if  the 
rough  discipline  of  adversity  had  but  served 

"  to  elevate  the  will, 

And  lead  him  on  to  that  transcendent  rest 
Where  every  passion  doth  the  sway  attest 
Of  reason,  seated  on  her  sovereign  hill." 

It  is  observable  that  the  powers,  which  cleave  to  his  thoughts 
and  obey  his  "  so  potent  art,"  before  his  coming  were  at  perpet- 
ual war,  the  better  being  in  subjection  to  the  worse,  and  all  turned 
from  their  several  ends  into  a  mad,  brawling  dissonance  :  but  he 
teaches  them  to  know  their  places,  and,  "  weak  masters  though 
they  be,''  under  his  ordering  they  become  powerful,  and  work 


0  THE    TEMPEST. 

together  as  if  endowed  with  a  rational  soul  ;  their  uisane  gahbl* 
being  turned  to  speech,  (heir  savage  howling  to  music,  so  thai 

"  the  isle  is  full  of  noises, 
Sounds,  and  sweet  airs,  that  give  delight,  and  hurt  not." 

Wherein  is  boldly  figured  the  educating  of  nature  up,  so  to  speak, 
into  intelligent  ministries,  she  lending  man  hands  because  he  lends 
her  eyes  ;  weaving  her  forces,  as  it  were,  into  vital  union  with 
him,  to  the  end  that  she  may  rise  above  herself  and  attain  to  a 
more  excellent  form. 

This,  to  be  sure,  is  making  the  work  rather  an  allegory  than  » 
drama,  and  therein  of  course  misrepresents  its  quality ;  for  the 
connecting  links  in  this  strange  intercourse  of  the  natural  and  the 
supernatural  are  "  beings  individually  determined,"  and  affect  us 
as  persons,  not  as  propositions. 

Ariel  and  Caliban  are  equally  preternatural,  though  in  opposite 
directions.  Ariel's  very  being  is  spun  out  of  melody  and  fra- 
grance ;  at  least,  if  a  feeling  soul  and  an  intelligent  will  be  the 
warp,  these  are  the  woof  of  his  exquisite  texture.  He  has  just 
enough  of  human-heartedness  to  know  how  he  would  feel  were 
he  human,  and  a  proportionable  sense  of  gratitude,  which  has 
been  aptly  called  "  the  memory  of  the  heart : "  hence  he  needs 
to  be  often  reminded  of  his  obligations,  but  does  all  his  spiriting 
gently  while  he  holds  the  remembrance  of  them.  Yet  his  deli- 
cacy of  nature  is  nowhere  more  apparent  than  in  his  sympathy 
with  right  and  good  :  the  instant  he  comes  within  their  touch  he 
follows  them  without  reserve  ;  and  he  will  suffer  any  tortures 
rather  than  "  act  the  earthy  and  abhorred  commands  "  that  go 
against  his  moral  grain.  And  what  a  merry  little  personage  he 
is  withal !  as  if  his  being  were  cast  together  in  an  impulse  of 
play,  and  ne  would  spend  his  whole  life  in  one  perpetual  frolic. 
But  the  main  ingredients  of  his  zephyr-like  constitution  are  shown 
in  his  leading  inclinations ;  for  he  must  needs  have  most  affinity  _ 
for  that  of  which  he  is  framed.  Moral  ties  are  irksome  to  him  ; 
they  are  not  his  proper  element :  when  he  enters  their  sphere  he 
feels  them  to  be  holy  indeed  ;  but,  were  he  free,  he  would  keep 
out  of  their  reach,  and  follow  the  circling  seasons  in  their  course, 
and  ahvays  dwell  merrily  in  the  fringes  of  summer.  He  is 
indeed  an  arrant  little  epicure  of  perfume  and  sweet  sounds,  and 
gives  forth  several  songs  which  "  seem  to  sound  in  the  air,  and 
as  if  the  person  playing  them  were  invisible  j "  and  which, 
"  without  conveying  any  distinct  images,  seem  to  recall  all  tha 
feelings  connected  with  them,  like  snatches  of  half-forgotten  music 
beard  indistinctly  and  at  intervals. "  * 

Of  Ariel's  powers   and  functions   as  Prospero's  prime  minister 

•  Hazlitt. 


INTRODUCTION  9 

ao  logical  forms,  nothing  but  art,  and  perhaps  nr>  art  but  the 
poet's,  can  give  any  sort  of  an  idea.  Gifted  with  the  ubiquity 
and  multiformity  of  the  substance  from  which  he  is  named,  before 
we  can  catch  and  define  him  in  any  one  shape  he  has  passed  into 
another.  All  we  can  say  of  him  on  this  score  is,  that  through 
his  agency  Prospero's  thoughts  forthwith  become  things,  his  voli- 
tions events.  And  }-et,  strangely  and  diversely  as  his  nature  is 
elemented  and  compacted,  with  touches  akin  to  several  orders  of 
being,  there  is  such  a  self-consistency  about  him,  he  is  so  cut  out 
in  individual  distinctness  and  rounded  in  with  personal  attribute*, 
that  contemplation  freely  and  easily  rests  upon  him  as  an  object. 

If  Caliban  strike  us  as  a  more  wonderful  creation  than  Ariel,  it 
is  probably  because  he  has  more  in  common  with  us  without  be- 
ing in  any  proper  sense  human.  Perhaps  we  cannot  nit  him  better 
than  by  saying  he  represents,  both  in  soul  and  body,  a  sort  of 
intermediate  nature  between  man  and  brute,  with  an  infusion  of 
something  that  belongs  to  neither  :  as  though  one  of  the  transfor- 
mations, imagined  by  the  author  of  "  Vestiges  of  Creation,"  had 
stuck  midway  in  its  course,  where  a  breath  or  vapour  of  essen- 
tial Evil  had  knit  itself  vitally  into  his  texture.  If  he  have  all 
the  attributes  of  humanity  from  the  moral  downwards,  so  that  his 
nature  touches  and  borders  upon  the  sphere  of  mo.  "\  life;  still  the 
result  but  approves  his  exclusion  from  such  life,  in  that  it  brings 
him  to  recognize  moral  law  only  as  jnaking  for  self.  It  is  a  most 
singular  and  significant  stroke  in  tne  representation,  that  sleep 
seems  to  loosen  the  fetters  of  his  soul  and  lift  him  above  himself; 
then  indeed,  and  then  only,  the  "  muddy  vesture  of  decay  "  doth 
uot  so  "  grossly  close  him  in  "  but  that 

"The  clouds,  methought,  would  open,  and  show  riches 
Ready  to  drop  upon  me  ; " 

as  though  in  his  passive  state  the  voice  of  truth  and  good  vibrated 
down  to  his  soul,  and  stopped  there,  being  unable  to  kindle  any 
answering  tones  within  ;  so  that  in  his  waking  hours  they  are  to 
him  but  as  the  memory  of  a  dream. 

Thus  Caliban  is  part  man,  part  demon,  part  brute,  each  being 
drawn  somewhat  out  of  itself  by  combination  with  the  others,  and 
the  union  of  all  preventing  his  being  either ;  for  which  cause  lan- 
guage has  no  generic  term  that  fits  him.  Yet  this  strange,  uncouth, 
but  life-like  confusion  of  natures  Prospero  has  educated  into  a  sort 
of  poet.  This,  however,  has  nowise  tamed,  it  has  rather  increased 
his  innate  malignity  and  crookedness  of  disposition ;  education 
having  of  course  but  educed  what  was  in  him.  Even  his  poetry 
is  for  the  most  part  made  up  of  the  fascinations  of  ugliness  ;  a 
sort  of  inverted  beauty  ;  the  poetry  of  dissonance  and  deformity; 
the  proper  music  of  his  nature  being  to  curse,  its  proper  laughtei 
jo  snarl.  Schlegel  finely  compares  his  mind  to  a  dark  cave  into 


10  THE    TEMPEST. 

which  the  light  of  knowledge  falling  neither  illuminates  nor  warmt 
it,  but  only  serves  to  put  111  motion  the  poisonous  vapours'  gen 
erated  there. 

Of  course  it  is  only  by  exhausting  the  resources  of  instruction 
on  such  a  being  that  his  innate  and  essential  deficiency  can  be 
fully  shown.  For  had  he  the  germs  of  a  human  soul,  they  must 
needs  have  been  drawn  forth  by  the  process  that  has  made  him  a 
poet.  The  magical  presence  of  spirits,  it  is  true,  hath  cast  into 
the  caverns  of  his  brain  a  faint  reflection  of  a  better  world,  but 
without  calling  up  any  answering  emotions  or  aspirations ;  he 
having  indeed  no  susceptibilities  to  catch  and  take  in  the  epipha- 
nies that  throng  his  whereabout.  So  that,  paradoxical  as  it  may 
seem,  he  exemplifies  the  twofold  triumph  of  art  over  nature,  and 
of  nature  over  art. 

But  what  is  most  remarkable  of  all  is  the  perfect  originality  of 
his  thoughts  and  manners.  Though  framed  of  grossness  and 
malignity,  there  is  nothing  vulgar  or  common-place  about  him. 
His  whole  character  indeed  is  developed  from  within,  not  impressed 
from  without ;  the  effect  of  Prospero's  instructions  having  been  to 
make  him  all  the  more  himself;  and  there  being  perhaps  no  soil 
in  his  nature  for  conventional  vices  and  knaveries  to  take  root 
and  grow  in.  Hence  the  almost  classic  dignity  of  his  behaviour 
compared  with  that  of  the  drunken  sailors,  who  are  little  else 
than  a  sort  of  low,  vulgar  conventionalities  organized,  and  as 
such  not  less  true  to  the  life  than  consistent  with  themselves.  In 
his  simplicity  indeed  he  at  first  mistakes  them  for  gods  who  "  bear 
celestial  liquor,"  and  they  wax  merry  enough  at  the  "  credulous 
monster ; "  but  in  his  vigour  of  thought  and  purpose  he  soot 
conceives  such  a  scorn  at  their  childish  interest  in  whatevei 
trinkets  and  gewgaws  meet  their  eye,  as  fairly  drives  off  his  fit 
of  intoxication ;  and  the  savage  of  the  woods,  half-human  though 
he  be,  seems  nobility  itself  beside  the  savages  of  the  city. 

In  short,  if  Caliban  be,  as  it  were,  the  organized  sediment  and 
dregs  of  the  place,  from  which  all  the  finer  spirit  has  been  drawn 
off  to  fashion  the  delicate  Ariel,  yet  having  some  parts  of  a 
human  mind  strangely  interwoven  with  his  structure ;  every  thing 
about  him,  all  that  he  does  and  says,  is  suitable  and  correspondent 
to  such  a  constitution  of  nature  :  so  that  all  the  elements  and 
attributes  of  his  being  stand  and  work  together  in  living  coher- 
ence, thus  rendering  him  no  less  substantive  and  personal  to  our 
apprehension  than  original  and  peculiar  in  himself. 

Such  are  the  objects  and  influences  amidst  which  the  clear, 
placid  nature  of  Miranda  has  been  developed.  Of  the  world 
whence  her  father  was  driven,  its  crimes  and  follies  and  sufferings, 
she  knows  nothing,  he  having  studiously  kept  all  sach  notices 
from  her,  to  the  end,  apparently,  that  nothing  might  thwart  01 
hinder  the  plastic  efficacies  that  surround  her.  And  here  all  the 
amp'*  and  original  elements  of  her  being,  love,  light,  grace. 


INTRODUCTION.  1  f 

Vmour,  anil  innocence,  aJl  pure  feeling's  and  tender  sympathies 
whatsoever  is  sweet  and  gentle  and  holy  in  womanhood,  seem  to 
have  sprung  up  in  her  nature  as  from  celestial  seed  :  "  the  conta- 
gion of  the  world's  slow  stain "  hath  not  visited  her ;  the  chills 
and  cankers  of  artificial  wisdom  have  not  touched  nor  come  near 
her :  if  there  were  any  fog  or  breath  of  evil  in  the  place  that 
might  else  dim  or  spot  her  soul,  it  has  been  sponged  up  by  Cali- 
ban as  being  more  congenial  with  his  nature  ;  while  he  is  simply 
"  a  villain  she  does  not  love  to  look  on."  Nor  is  this  all.  The 
aerial  music,  beneath  which  her  nature  has  expanded  with  answer- 
ing sweetness,  seems  to  rest  visibly  upon  her,  linking  her,  as  it 
were,  with  some  superior  order  of  beings  :  the  spirit  and  genius 
of  the  place,  its  magic  and  mystery,  have  breathed  their  power 
into  her  face ;  and  out  of  them  she  has  unconsciously  woven  her- 
self a  robe  of  supernatural  grace,  in  which  even  her  mortal  na- 
ture seems  half  hidden,  so  that  we  hardly  know  whether  she  be- 
longs more  to  heaven  or  to  earth.  Thus  both  her  native  virtues 
and  the  efficacies  of  the  place  seem  to  have  crept  and  stolen  into 
her  unperceived,  by  mutual  attraction  and  assimilation  twining 
together  in  one  growth,  and  each  diffusing  its  life  and  beauty  all 
over  and  through  the  other.  It  would  seem  as  if  the  great  poet 
of  our  age  must  have  had  Miranda  in  his  eye,  (or  was  he  but 
working  in  the  spirit  of  that  nature  which  she  so  rarely  ezein 
plifies  ?)  when  he  wrote  the  lines  : 

"  The  floating  clouds  their  state  shall  lend 
To  her  ;  for  her  the  willow  bend  : 

Nor  shall  she  fail  to  see 
Even  in  the  motions  of  the  storm 
Grace  that  shall  mould  the  maiden's  form 

By  silent  sympathy. 

"  The  stars  of  midnight  shall  be  dear 
To  her  ;  and  she  shall  lean  her  ear 

In  many  a  secret  place 
Where  rivulets  dance  their  wayward  round, 
And  beauty  born  of  murmuring  sound 

Shall  pass  into  her  face." 

Yet  for  all  this  Miranda  not  a  whit  the  less  touches  us  as  a 
creature  of  flesh  and  blood,  "  a  being  breathing  thoughtful  breath." 
Nay,  she  seems  all  the  more  so,  forasmuch  as  the  character  thus 
coheres  with  the  circumstances,  the  virtues  and  poetries  of  the 
place  being  expressed  in  her  visibly ;  and  she  would  be  far  less 
real  to  our  feelings,  were  not  the  wonders  of  her  whereabout  thus 
vitally  incorporated  with  her  innate  and  original  attributes.  This 
mailer  has  been  put  so  well  by  Mrs.  Jameson  that  it  would 
be  wronging  the  subject  not  to  quote  her  words  :  "  If  we  can 


12  THE    TEMPEST. 

presuppos*  sucn  a  situation,  do  we  not  behold  in  the  character 
of  Miranda  not  only  the  credible,  but  the  natural,  the  necessary 
result  ?  She  retains  her  woman's  heart,  for  that  is  unalterable  anu 
inalienable,  as  a  part  of  her  being ;  bu»  her  deportment,  her  looks, 
her  language,  her  thoughts,  from  the  supernatural  and  poetical 
circumstances  assume  a  cast  of  the  pure  ideal ;  and  to  us,  who 
are  in  the  secret  of  her  human  and  pitying  nature,  nothing  can  be 
more  charming  and  consistent  than  the  effect  which  she  produces 
upon  others,  who,  never  having  beheld  any  thing  resembling  her, 
approach  her  as  '  a  wonder,'  as  something  celestial." 

It  is  observable  that  Miranda  does  not  perceive  the  working  of 
her  father's  art  upon  herself;  as,  when  he  puts  her  to  sleep,  she 
attributes  it  to  the  strangeness  of  his  tale.  And,  on  the  other 
hand,  he  thinks  she  is  not  listening  attentively  to  what  he  is  say- 
ing, partly,  perhaps,  because  he  is  not  attending  to  it  himself,  his 
thoughts  being  about  the  approaching  crisis  in  his  fortunes  while 
his  speech  is  of  the  past,  and  partly  because  in  her  ecstasy  of 
wonder  at  what  he  is  relating  she  seems  abstracted  and  self-with- 
drawn from  the  matter  of  his  discourse.  For  indeed  to  her  the 
supernatural  stands  in  the  place  of  nature,  and  nothing  is  so 
strange  and  wonderful  as  what  actually  passes  in  the  life  and 
heart  of  man  :  miracles  have  been  her  daily  food,  her  father  being 
the  greatest  miracle  of  all ;  which  must  needs  make  the  common 
events  and  passions  and  perturbations  of  the  world  seem  to  her 
miraculous.  All  which  the  Poet  has  wrought  out  wjth  so  much 
art,  and  so  little  appearance  of  it,  that  Franz  Horn  is  the  only 
critic,  so  far  as  we  know,  that  seems  to  have  thought  of  it. 

We  may  not  dismiss  Miranda  without  remarking  upon  the  sweet 
union  of  womanly  dignity  and  childlike  simplicity  in  her  charac- 
ter, she  not  knowing  or  not  caring  to  disguise  the  innocent  move- 
ments of  her  heart.  This,  too,  is  a  natural  result  of  her  situa- 
tion. Equally  fine  is  the  circumstance,  that  her  father  opens  to 
her  the  story  of  her  life,  and  lets  her  into  the  secret  of  her  noble 
birth  and  ancestry,  at  a  time  when  she  is  suffering  with  those 
that  she  saw  suffer,  and  when  her  eyes  are  jewelled  with  pity, 
as  if  on  purpose  that  the  ideas  of  rank  and  dignity  may  sweet- 
ly blend  and  coalesce  in  her  mind  with  the  sympathies  of  the 
woman. 

The  strength  and  delicacy  of  imagination  displayed  in  these 
characters  are  scarce  more  admirable  than  the  truth  and  subtletj 
of  observation  shown  in  the  others. 

Ill  the  delineation  of  Antonio  and  Sebastian,  short  as  it  is,  there 
is  a  volume  of  wise  science,  the  leading  points  of  which  are  thus 
set  forth  by  Coleridge :  "  Li  the  first  scene  of  the  second  acl 
Shakespeare  has  shown  the  tendency  in  bad  men  to  indulge  iu 
scorn  and  contemptuous  expressions  as  a  mode  of  getting  rid  of 
their  own  uneasy  feelings  of  inferiority  to  the  good,  and  also  of 
rendering  the  transition  to  wickedness  easy  oy  making  the  good 


INTRODUCTION.  13 

ridiculous.  Shakespeare  never  puts  habitual  sconi  into  the  mouths 
of  other  than  bad  men,  as  nere  in  the  instances  of  Antonio  and 
Sebastian.  The  scene  of  the  intended  assassination  of  Alonzo 
and  Gonzalo  is  an  exact  counterpart  of  the  scene  between  Mac- 
beth and  his  lady,  only  pitched  in  a  lower  key  throughout,  as  de- 
signed to  be  frustrated  and  concealed,  and  exhibiting  the  same 
profound  management  in  the  manner  of  familiarizing  a  mind,  not 
immediately  recipient,  to  the  suggestion  of  guilt,  by  associating 
the  proposed  crime  with  something  ludicrous  or  out  of  place,-— 
something  not  habitually  matter  of  reverence." 

Nor  is  there  less  of  sagacity  in  the  means  whereby  Prospcro 
seeks  to  make  them  better,  provoking  in  them  the  purpose  and 
taking  away  the  performance  of  crime,  that  so  he  may  bring  them 
to  a  knowledge  of  themselves,  and  awe  or  shame  down  their  evil 
by  his  demonstrations  of  good.  For  such  is  the  proper  eflect  of 
bad  designs  thus  thwarted,  showing  the  authors  at  once  the  wick- 
edness of  their  hearts  and  the  weakness  of  their  hands  ;  whereas 
if  successful  in  their  plans,  pride  of  power  would  forestall  an<*. 
prevent  the  natural  shame  and  remorse  of  guilt.  And  we  little 
know  what  evil  it  lieth  and  lurketh  in  our  hearts  to  will  or  to  do, 
until  occasion  permits  or  invites  ;  and  Prospero's  art  here  stands 
ia  presenting  the  occasion  until  the  wicked  purpose  is  formed, 
and  then  removing  it  as  soon  as  the  hand  is  raised.  It  is  notice- 
able that  in  the  case  of  Antonio  and  Sebastian  the  workings  of 
magic  are  so  mixed  up  with  those  of  nature  that  we  cannot  dis- 
tinguish them :  or  rather,  Prospero  here  causes  the  supernatural 
to  pursue  the  methods  of  nature ;  thus,  like  the  Poet  himself,  so 
concealing  his  art  while  using  it  that  the  result  seems  to  spring 
from  their  own  minds. 

And  the  same  deep  skill  is  shown  in  case  of  the  good  old  mail, 
Gonzalo,  whose  sense  of  his  own  pains  and  perils  seems  lost  in 
his  care  to  minister  comfort  and  diversion  to  others.  Thus 
his  virtue  spontaneously  opens  the  springs  of  wit  and  humour 
within  him  amid  the  terrors  of  the  storm  and  shipwreck ;  and  he 
is  merry  while  others  are  suffering,  even  from  sympathy  with 
them  :  and  afterwards  his  thoughtful  spirit  plays  with  Utopian 
fancies ;  and  if  "  the  latter  end  of  his  commonwealth  forgets  the 
beginning,"  it  is  all  the  same  to  him,  his  purpose  being  on_y  to 
beguile  the  anguish  of  supposed  bereavement.  It  hath  been  well 
•aid,  that  "  Gonzalo  is  so  occupied  with  duty,  in  which  alone  he 
finds  pleasure,  that  he  scarce  notices  the  gnat-stings  of  wit  with 
which  his  opponents  pursue  him ;  or,  if  he  observes,  firmly  and 
easily  repels  them." 

In  Ferdinand  is  portrayed  one  of  those  happy  natures,  such  as 
we  sometimes  meet  with,  who  are  built  up  all  the  more  strong! jr 
in  virtue  and  honour  by  contact  with  the  vices  and  meannesses  of 
the  world.  The  meeting  of  him  and  Miranda  is  replete  with 


14  THE    TEMPEST. 

magic  indeed  ;  a  magic  higher  and  more  potent  even  than  Pros- 
pero's  :  all  the  riches  that  nestle  in  their  bosoms  at  once  leaping 
forth  and  running  together  into  a  stream  of  poetry  which  no 
words  of  ours  can  describe.  So  much  of  beauty  in  so  few  words, 
and  those  few  so  plain  and  homely,  — "  O,  wondrous  skill  and 
sweet  wit  of  the  man  !  "  Here,  again,  Prospero  does  but  fur- 
nish occasions  :  his  art  has  the  effect  of  unsealing  the  choice 
founts  of  nature,  but  the  waters  gush  from  depths  which  even  he 
cannot  reach  ;  so  that  his  mighty  magic  bows  before  a  still  more 
wondrous  potency.  After  seeing  himself  thus  outdone  by  the 
nature  he  has  been  wont  to  control,  and  having  witnessed  such  a 
"  fair  encounter  of  two  most  rare  affections,"  no  wonder  that  he 
longs  to  be  a  man  again,  like  other  men,  and,  with  a  heart  "  true 
to  die  kindred  points  of  heaven  and  home,"  gladly  returns  to 

«  The  homely  sympathy  that  heeds 
The  common  life ;  our  nature  breeds  ; 
A  wisdom  fitted  to  the  needs 
Of  hearts  at  leisure." 

Some  appear  to  have  thought  the  presence  of  Trinculo  and 
Stephano  a  blemish  in  the  play.  We  cannot  think  so.  Their 
follies  give  a  zest  and  relish  to  the  high  poetries  amidst  which 
they  grow.  Such  things  go  to  make  up  the  mysterious  whole  of 
human  life ;  and  they  often  help  on  our  pleasure  while  seeming 
to  hinder  it :  we  may  think  they  bad  better  be  away  ;  yet,  were 
they  away,  we  should  feel  that  something  were  wanting.  Be- 
sides, if  this  part  of  the  work  do  not  directly  yield  a  grateful 
fragrance,  it  is  vitally  related  to  the  parts  that  do. 

Such  are  the  strangely-assorted  characters  that  make  up  this 
charming  play.  And  yet  how  they  all  concur  in  unity  of  effect ! 
This  harmonious  working  together  of  diverse  and  opposite  ele- 
ments, —  this  smooth  concurrence  of  heterogeneous  materials  in 
one  varied  yet  coherent  impression, — by  what  subtle  process  this 
is  brought  about,  must  be  left  to  keener  and  deeper  wits.  But 
how  variously  soever  men  may  account  for  this,  no  one,  surely, 
who  has  a  proper  sense  of  art,  or  of  nature  as  addressed  to  the 
imaginative  faculty,  can  well  question,  that  all  the  parts  are  so 
vitally  interwoven,  that  if  any  one  be  cut  away  the  whole  drama 
will  be  in  danger  of  bleeding  to  death. 

We  cannot  leave  the  subject  without  remarking  what  an  at 
mosphere  of  wonder  and  mystery  overhangs  and  pervades  this 
singular  structure,  and  how  the  whole  seems  steeped  in  glories 
invisible  to  the  natural  eye,  yet  made  visible  by  the  Poet's 
art ;  thus  leading  the  thoughts  insensibly  upwards  to  other 
worlds  and  other  forms  of  being.  It  were  difficult  indeed  to 
name  any  thing  else  of  human  workmanship  so  thoroughly  trans- 
figured with 


INTRODUCTION.  15 

"  the  gleam. 

The  light  that  never  was  on  sea  or  land, 
The  consecration  and  the  poet's  dream  : " 

the  celestial  and  the  earthly  being  so  commingled,  —  coin 
mingled,  but  not  confounded,  —  that  we  see  not  where  the  one 
begins  and  the  other  ends  .  so  that  in  reading  it  we  seem  trans- 
ported to  a  region  where  we  are  strangers,  yet  old  acquaint- 
ances ;  where  all  things  are  at  once  new  and  familiar  :  the  un- 
earthly visions  of  the  spot  hardly  touching  us  with  surprise  ;  be- 
cause, though  wonderful  indeed,  there  is  nothing  about  them  but 
that  somewhat  within  us  owns  and  assimilates  with  more  readily 
than  is  compatible  with  such  an  impression.  That  our  thoughts 
and  feelings  are  thus  at  home  with  such  things  and  take  pleasure 
in  them,  —  is  not  this  because  of  some  innate  aptitudes  and  affini 
tin  of  our  nature  for  a  supernatural  and  celestial  life  ? 

u  Point  not  these  mysteries  to  an  Art 
Lodged  above  the  starry  pole  t " 


PERSONS  REPRESENTED. 


ALONZO,  King  of  Naples. 

SEBASTIAN,  his  Brother. 

PROSPERO,  the  rightful  Duke  of  Milan. 

ANTONIO,  his  Brother,  the  usurping  Duke  of  Milan. 

FERDINAND,  Son  to  the  King  of  Naples. 

GONZALO,  an  honest  old  Counsellor  of  Naples. 

ADRIAN, 


CALIBAN,  a  savage  and  deformed  Slave. 

TRINCULO,  a  Jester. 

STEPHANO,  a  drunken  Butler. 

Master  of  a  Ship,  Boatswain,  and  Mariners. 

MIRANDA,  Daughter  to  Prospero. 

ARIEL,  an  airy  Spirit. 

IRIS, 

CERES, 


JONO, 

Nymphs, 
Reapers, 


Spirits. 


Other  Spirits  attending  on  Prospero. 

SCENE,  the  Sea,  with  a  Ship ;  afterwards  an  unin- 
habited Island. 


THE   TEMPEST. 


ACT  L 

SCENE    I.     On  a  Ship  at  Sea.' 

A  Storm,  with  Thunder  and  Lightning, 

Enter  a  Ship-master  and  a  Boatswain. 

Mast.    BOATSWAIN  ! 
Boats.     Here,  master  :   what  cheer  1 
Mast.     Good,    speak  to  the  mariners :   fall  to't 
yarely,2  or  we  run  ourselves  aground  :   bestir,  be- 
stir. [Exit. 
Enter   Mariners. 

Boats.  Heigh,  my  hearts  !  cheerly,  cheerly,  my 
hearts !  yare,  yare  :  Take  in  the  top-sail ;  tend  to 
the  master's  whistle.  —  Blow  till  thou  burst  thy 
wind,  if  room  enough  ! 

Enter  ALONZO,  SEBASTIAN,  ANTONIO,  FERDINAND, 
GONZALO,  and  others. 

Alon.  Good  boatswain,  have  care.  Where's 
the  master  1  Play  the  men.3 

1  Upon  this  scene  Coleridge  finely  remarks :  "  The  romance 
jpeiis  with  a  busy  scene  admirably  appropriate  to  the  kind  of 
drama,  and  giving,  as  it  were,  the  key-note  to  the  whole  harmony 
It  is  the  bustle  of  a  tempest,  from  which  the  real  horrors  are 
abstracted  ;  —  therefore  it  is  poetical,  though  not  in  strictness  nat- 
ural—  (the  distinction  to  which  I  have  so  often  alluded)  —  and  is 
purposely  restrained  from  concentering  the  interest  on  itself,  but 
'M  used  merely  as  an  induction  or  tuning  for  what  is  to  follow."  H. 

*  That  is,  readily,  nimbly. 

*  That  is,  act  with  spirit,  behave  like  men.     Thus  Baret  in  In* 


18  THE    TEMPES1  ACT    t 

Boats.     I  pray  now,  keep  below. 

Ant.    Where  is  the  master,  boatswain  * 

Boats.  Do  you  not  hear  him  1  You  mar  our 
labor  :  keep  your  cabins  ;  you  do  assist  the  storm, 

Gon.    Nay,  good,  be  patient. 

Boats.  When  the  sea  is.  Hence !  What  care 
these  roarers  for  the  name  of  king  1  To  cabin  : 
silence  !  trouble  us  not. 

Gon.  Good ;  yet  remember  whom  thou  hast 
aboard. 

Boats.  None  that  I  more  love  than  myself.  You 
are  a  counsellor :  if  you  can  command  these  ele- 
ments to  silence,  and  work  the  peace  of  the  present, 
we  will  not  hand  a  rope  more  ;  use  your  authority  : 
if  you  cannot,  give  thanks  you  have  liv'd  so  long, 
and  make  yourself  ready  in  your  cabin  for  the  mis- 
chance of  the  hour,  if  it  so  hap.  —  Cheerly,  good 
hearts  !  —  Out  of  our  way,  I  say.  [Exit. 

Gon.  I  have  great  comfort  from  this  fellow  :  me- 
thinks,  he  hath  no  drowning  mark  upon  him ;  his 
complexion  is  perfect  gallows.  Stand  fast,  good 
fate,  to  his  hanging  !  make  the  rope  of  his  destiny 
our  cable,  for  our  own  doth  little  advantage  !  If  he 
be  not  born  to  be  hang'd,  our  case  is  miserable. 

[Exeunt. 
Re-enter  Boatswain. 

Boats.     Down  with  the  top-mast :  4  yare  ;  lower, 

Alvearie :   "  To  play  the  man,  or  to  show  himself  a  valiant  man 
in  any  matter." 

4  Of  this  order  Lord  Mulgrave,  a  sailor  critic,  says :  "  The 
striking  the  topmast  was  a  new  invention  in  Shakespeare's  time, 
which  h«  here  very  properly  introduces.  Sir  Henry  Manwaring 
says :  '  If  you  have  sea-room  it  is  never  good  to  strike  the  top- 
mast.' Shakespeare  has  placed  his  ship  in  the  situation  in  which 
it  was  indisputably  right  'o  strike  the  topmast,  —  where  he  had 
not  sea-rcom."  H 


£C.  I.  THE   TEMPEST.  19 

lowei  :  Bring  her  to :  try  with  main-course.8  [A 
cry  loithin.]  A  plague  upon  this  howling!  they 
are  louder  than  the  weather,  or  our  office.  — 

Re-enter  SEBASTIAN,  ANTONIO,  and  GONZAI.O. 
Yet   again !    what  do    lou  here  1     Shall  we  give 
o'er,  and  drown  1     Hare  you  a  mind  to  sink  ? 

Scb.  A  pox  o'  your  throat,  you  bawling,  bias 
phemous,  uncharitable  dog ! 

Boats.    Work  you,  then. 

Ant.  Hang,  cur,  hang  !  you  whoreson,  insolent 
noise-maker,  we  are  less  afraid  to  be  drown'd  than 
thou  art. 

Gon.  I'll  warrant  him  for 6  drowning ;  though 
the  ship  were  no  stronger  than  a  nut-shell,  and  as 
leaky  as  an  unstanched  7  wench. 

Boats.  Lay  her  a-hold,  a-hold :  set  her  two 
courses ; 8  off  to  sea  again ;  lay  her  off. 

8  This  is  a  sea  phrase.  "  As  the  gale  increases  the  topmast  is 
struck,  to  take  the  weight  from  aloft,  make  the  ship  drive  less  to 
leeward,  and  bear  the  mainsail,  under  which  the  ship  is  laid  to." 
Smith,  in  his  Sea  Grammar,  1627,  explains  it :  "  To  hale  the  tacke 
aboord,  the  sheate  close  aft,  the  holing  set  up,  and  the  hehne  tied 
close  ahoord."  H. 

8  For  is  here  archaic,  and  used  in  the  sense  of  from;  so  that 
Theobald's  substitution  of  the  latter  word  is  needless.  Of  course 
Gonzalo  has  in  mind  the  old  proverb,  —  "  He  that  is  born  to  be 
banged  will  never  be  drowned."  H. 

7  In  Beaumont  and  Fletcher's  Mad  Lover,  Chilas  says  to  the 
frightened  priestess : 

"  Be  quiet,  and  be  staunch  too ;  no  inundations." 

•  Stevens  printed  this,  set  her  two  courses  off,  which  Captain 
Glascock  objects  to,  and  says  :  "  The  ship's  head  is  to  be  put  lee* 
ward,  and  the  vessel  to  be  drawn  off  the  land  under  that  can- 
vass nautically  denominated  the  two  courses."  The  punctuation 
we  have  given  is  Lord  Mulgrave's.  Holt  says  :  "  The  courses 
meant  are  two  of  the  three  lowest  and  largest  sails  of  a  ship,  so 
called  because  they  contribute  most  to  give  her  way  through  the 
water,  and  thus  enable  her  to  feel  the  helm,  and  steer  her  count 
better  than  when  they  are  not  set  or  spread  to  the  wind."  To  lag 
a  ship  a-hold,  is  to  bring  her  to  lie  as  near  the  wind  as  she  can, 
in  order  to  keen  clear  of  the  lan.l.  and  eet  her  out  to  sea.  H 


20  THE    TEMPEST.  ACT  1. 

Enter  Mariner*,  wet. 

Afar.     All  lost !  to  prayers,  to  prayers  !  all  lost  t 

[Exeunt. 

Boats.    What !  must  our  mouths  be  cold  ? 

Gon.    The  king  and  prince  at  prayers  !  let  us 

assist  them, 
For  our  case  is  as  theirs. 

Seb.    I  am  out  of  patience. 

Ant.    We  are  merely 9  cheated  of  our  lives  by 

drunkards.  — 
Phis  wide-chapp'd  rascal! — 'would,  thou  might'st 

lie  drowning, 
The  washing  of  ten  tides. 

Gon.  He'll  be  hang'd  yet; 

Though  every  drop  of  water  swear  against  it, 
And  gape  at  wid'st  to  glut10  liim. 
[A  confused  noise  within. —  Mercy  on  us!     We  split, 
toe  split  I  —  Farewell,  my  wife  and  children  !  —  Fare- 
well, brotlier  !  —  We  split,  we  split,  we  split!  n] 

Ant.     Let's  all  sink  with  the  king.  [Exit. 

Seb.    Let's  take  leave  of  him.  [Exit. 

Gon.  Now  would  I  give  a  thousand  furlongs  of 
sea  for  an  acre  of  barren  ground ;  long  heath, 
brown  furze,  any  thing:  The  wills  above  be  done  ! 
but  I  would  fain  die  a  dry  death.12  [Exit. 

9  Merely,  absolutely,  entirely  ;  Mer4,  Lat. 

10  To  englut,  to  swallow  him. 

11  This  passage  is  usually  printed  as  a  part  of  GonzaJo's  speech  ; 
which  is  clearly  wrong.     Dr.  Johnson  suggested  that  the  words  ' 
here  enclosed  in  brackets  should  be  given  as  a  part,  or  rather  as 
the   particulars  of  the  confused  noise  within.     Which  is  so  ob- 
viously right  that  we  should  hardly  hesitate  to  adopt  it,  even  if  we 
had  not  the  great  authority  of  Dyee  and  Halliwell  for  doing  so.     H. 

18  In  Boswell's  edition  is  a  paper  from  Lord  Mulgrave,  show 
ing  that  the  Poet  must  either  have  drawn  his  technical  knowledge 
of  seamanship  from  accurate  personal  observation,  or  else  hav* 
had  a  remarkable  power  of  applying  the  information  gained 
from  others.  And  he  thinks  Shakespeare  must  have  conversed 
with  some  of  the  best  seamen  of  the  time,  as  "  no  books  had  then 


8C.  II.  THE    TEMPEST.  21 

SCENE    II. 

The  Is  and :    before  the  Cell  of  PROSPERS 
Enter  PROSPERO  and  MIRANDA. 

Mira.  If  by  your  art,  my  dearest  father,  you  have 
Put  the  wild  waters  in  this  roar,  allay  them  : 
The  sky,  it  seems,  would  pour  down  stinking  pitch, 
But  that  the  sea,  mounting  to  the  welkin's  cheek, 
Dashes  the  fire  out.     O !  I  have  suffered 
With  those  that  I  saw  suffer  :  a  brave  vessel, 
Who  had  no  doubt  some  noble  creatures  in  her, 
Dash'd  all  to  pieces.     O  !  the  cry  did  knock 
Against  my  very  heart.     Poor  souls  !  they  perish'd. 
Had  I  been  any  god  of  power,  I  would 
Have  sunk  the  sea  within  the  earth,  or  e'er ' 
It  should  the  good  ship  so  have  swallow'd,  and 
The  fraughting  souls  within  her. 

Pro.  Be  collected  : 

No  more  amazement :  tell  your  piteous  heart, 
There's  no  harm  done. 

Mira.  O,  woe  the  day  ! 

Pro.  No  harm. 

I  have  done  nothing  but  in  care  of  thee, 
(Of  thee,  my  dear  one  !  thee,  my  daughter ! )  who 
Art  ignorant  of  what  thou  art,  nought  knowing 

been  published  on  the  subject."  He  then  exhibits  the  ship  in  five 
positions,  and  shows  how  truly  these  are  represented  by  the  words 
of  the  dialogue,  and  says :  "  The  succession  of  events  is  strictly 
observed  in  the  natural  progress  of  the  distress  described :  the 
expedients  adopted  are  the  best  that  could  have  been  devised  for 
a  chance  of  safety  :  the  words  of  command  are  not  only  strictly 
proper,  but  are  only  such  as  point  to  the  object  to  be  attained, 
and  ro  superfluous  ones  of  detail."  Captain  Glascock  says  i 
"  The  Boatswain  in  The  Tempest  delivers  himself  in  the  true  ver- 
nacular style  of  the  forecastle."  H. 

1  i.  e.  Before,  sooner  than ;  as  in  Ecclesiastes,  "  or  ever  the 
silver  cord  be  loosed  ; "  and  again  in  Daniel,  "  or  ever  they  came 
to  the  bottom  of  the  den  "  H 


!£2  THE    TEMPEST.  ACT    1. 

Of  whence  1  am ;  nor  that  I  am  more  better  * 
Than  Prospero,  master  of  a  full  poor  cell. 
And  thy  no  greater  father. 

Mira,  More  to  know 

Did  never  meddle 3  with  my  thoughts. 

Pro.  'Tis  time 

I  should  inform  thee  further.     Lend  thy  hand, 
And  pluck  my  magic  garment  from  me.  —  So : 

[Lays  down  his  mantle 
Lie  there,  my  art.4  —  Wipe  thou  thine  eyes  ;  have 

comfort. 

The  direful  spectacle  of  the  wreck,  wliich  touch  d 
The  very  virtue  of  compassion  in  thee, 
I  have  with  such  prevision  in  mine  art 
So  safely  order'd,  that  there  is  no  soul — 
No,  not  so  much  perdition  as  an  hair, 
Betid  to  any  creature  in  the  vessel 
Wliich  thou  heard'st  cry,  which  thou  saw'st  sink. 

Sit  down ; 
For  thou  must  now  know  further. 

Mira.  You  have  often 

Begun  to  tell  me  what  I  am ;  but  stopp'd, 
And  left  me  to  a  bootless  inquisition ; 
Concluding,  "  Stay,  not  yet."  — 

Pro.  The  hour's  now  comb, 

The  very  minute  bids  thee  ope  tliine  ear ; 
Obey,  and  be  attentive.     Canst  thou  remember 
A  time  before  we  came  unto  this  cell  1 
I  do  not  think  thou  canst ;  for  then  thou  wast  not 
Out 8  three  years  old. 

*  The  double  comparative  is  in  frequent  use  among  our  elder 
writers. 

3  To  meddle,  is  t.o  mix,  or  mingle  with. 

4  Lord  Burleigh,  when  he  put  off  his  gown  at  night,  used  to 
say,  "  Lie  there,  Lord  Treasurer."  —  Fuller's  Holy  State. 

*  Out  is  used  for  entirely,  quite.     Thus  in  Act  iv.  :  "  And  be  ;i 
boy  righ   out." 


BC.  II.  THE    TEMPEST.  & 

Mircu  Certainly,  sir,  I  can. 

Pro.     By  what  1  by  any  other  house,  or  person  1 
Of  any  thing  the  image  tell  me,  that 
Hath  kept  with  thy  remembrance. 

Mra.  'Tis  far  off; 

And  rather  like  a  dream  than  an  assurance 
That  my  remembrance  warrants  :     Had  I  not 
Four  or  five  women  once,  that  tended  me  1 

Pro.     Thou    hadst,    and    more,   Miranda:     Buv 

how  is  it, 

That  this  lives  in  thy  mind  1     What  seest  thou  else 
In  the  dark  backward  and  abysm6  of  time  ? 
If  thou  remember'st  aught,  ere  thou  cam'st  here, 
How  thou  cam'st  here,  thou  may'st. 

Mira.  But  that  I  do  not 

Pro.     Twelve  year  since,  Miranda,  twelve  year 

since, 

Thy  father  was  the  duke  of  Milan,  and 
A  prince  of  power. 

Mira.  Sir,  are  not  you  my  father? 

Pro.    Thy  mother  was  a  piece  of  virtue,  and 
She    said  —  thou    wast    my    daughter  ;     and    thy 

father 

Was  duke  of  Milan ;  and  his  only  heir 
And  princess  no  worse  issued.7 

Mira.  O,  the  heavens  ! 

What  foul  play  had  we,  that  we  came  from  thence  7 
Or  blessed  was't,  we  did? 

Pro.  Both,  both,  my  girl . 

6  Abysm  was  the  old  mode  of  spelling  abyss  ;  from  its  French 
original  abisme. 

1  This  line  is  usually  printed  thus  : 

"  A  princess  ; —  no  worse  issued  : "  — 

which  might  indeed  be  admitted,  but  that  there  is  no  authority  foi 
it  in  the  original ;  ncr  any  need  of  the  charge,  the  sense  being 
clear  enough  without  it.  H 


34  THE    TEMPEST.  ACT  I. 

By  foul  play,  as  thou  say'st,  were  we  heav'd  thence 
But  blessedly  holp  liither. 

Mira.  O,  my  heart  bleeds 

To  think  o'  the  teen 8  that  I  have  turn'd  you  to, 
Which  is  from  my  remembrance  !    Please  you,  fiii- 
ther. 

Pro.    My  brother,  and  thy  uncle,  call'd  Anton k  — 
I  pray  thee,  mark  me,  —  that  a  brother  should 
Be  so  perfidious  !  —  he  whom,  next  thyself, 
Of  all  the  world  I  lov'd,  and  to  him  put 
The  manage  of  my  state  ;  as,  at  that  time, 
Through  ah1  the  signiories  it  was  the  first, 
And  Prospero  the  prime  duke,  being  so  reputed 
In  dignity  ;  and,  for  the  liberal  arts, 
Without  a  parallel :  those  being  all  my  study, 
The  government  I  cast  upon  my  brother, 
And  to  my  state   grew  stranger,  being  transported, 
And  rapt  in  secret  studies.      Thy  false  uncle  — 
Dost  thou  attend  me  ? 

Mira.  Sir,  most  heedfully. 

Pro.     Being  once  perfected  how  to  grant  suits,, 
How  to  deny  them  ;  whom  to  advance,  and  whom 
To  trash 9  for  overtopping ;  new  created 
The  creatures  that  were  mine,  I  say,  or  chang'd  them 
Or  else  new  form'd  them  :  having  both  the  key 
Of  officer  and  office,  set  all  hearts  i'  the  state 
To  what  tune  pleas'd  his  ear  ;  that  now  he  was 
The  ivy,  which  had  hid  my  princely  trunk, 

8   Teen  is  grief,  sorrow. 

'  To  trash  means  to  check  the  pace  or  progress  of  any  one 
The  term  is  said  to  be  still  in  use  among  sportsmen  in  the  North, 
and  signifies  to  correct  a  dog  for  misbehaviour  in  pursuing  tli« 
game  ;  or  overtopping  or  outrunning  the  rest  of  the  pack.  Trashes 
are  clogs  strapped  round  the  neck  of  a  dog  to  prevent  his  over- 
speed.  Todd  has  given  four  instances  from  Hammond's  works 
of  the  word  in  this  sense  :  "  Clog  and  trash  "  —  "  encumber  and 
trash  "  —  "  to  trash  or  overslow  "  —  and  "  foreslowed  and  trashed  ' 


flC    II.  THE    TEMPEST.  2b 

And  suck'd  my  verdure  out  on't.  —  Thou  attend'st 
not. 

Hfira.     O  good  sir  !  I  do. 

Pro.  I  pray  thee,  irark  me. 

I  thus  neglecting  worldly  ends,  all  dedicated 
To  closeness,  and  the  bettering  of  my  mind 
With  that,  which,  but  by  being  so  retir'd, 
O'er-pri/.'d  all  popular  rate,10  in  my  false  brother 
Awak'd  an  evil  nature  :  and  my  trust, 
Like  a  good  parent,11  did  beget  of  Jum 
A  falsehood,  in  its  contrary  as  great 
As  my  trust  was  ;  which  had,  indeed,  no  limit, 
A  confidence  sans  bound.     He  being  thus  lorded, 
Not  only  with  what  my  revenue  yielded, 
But  what  my  power  might  else  exact,  —  like  one. 
Who  having,  unto  truth,  by  telling  of  it,18 
Made  such  a  sinner  of  his  memory, 
To  credit  his  own  lie,  —  he  did  believe 
He  was  indeed  the  duke  ;  out  o'  the  substitution, 
And  executing  the  outward  face  of  royalty, 
With  all  prerogative  :  —  Hence  his  ambition 
Growing,  —  Dost  thou  hear  1 

Mira.  Your  tale,  sir,  would  cure  deafness. 

Pro.  To  have  no  screen  between  this  part  he  play'd 
And  him  he  play'd  it  for,  he  needs  will  be 

w  The  sense  is  here  rendered  somewhat  obscure  hv  the  brevity 
of  expression.  The  meaning  seems  to  be  :  "  Which  would 
have  exceeded  all  popular  estimate,  but  that  it  withdrew  me  from 
my  public  duties  -,  "  as  if  he  were  sensible  of  his  error  in  getting 
so  "  rapt  in  secret  studies  "  as  to  leave  the  State  a  prey  to  vio- 
lence and  usurpation.  H. 

11  Alluding  to  the  observation  that  a  father  above  the  common 
rate  of  nen  has  generally  a  son  below  it. 

12  It  here  refers  to  lie  in  the  second  line  below.     So   that    the 
meaning   is  :     "  Who,  having   made  his  memory  such  a  sinner  to 
truth   by  lying,  that   he  came  to  believe  his  own  lie."     In  likfl 
manner  Tacitus  says  of  certain  men,  Jingebant  simul  credcbant 
<fue  H. 


26  THE    TEMPEST.  ACT    I. 

Absolute  Milan  :  Me,  poor  man  !  —  my  library 
Was  dukedom  large  enough  :  of  temporal  royalties 
He  tbinks  me  now  incapable  ;  confederates 
(So  dry  he  was  for  sway)   with  the  king  of  Naples, 
To  give  him  annual  tribute,  do  him  homage, 
Subject  his  coronet  to  his  crown,  and  bend 
The  dukedom,  yet  unbow  'd,  (alas,  poor  Milan  !) 
To  most  ignoble  stooping. 

Mira.  O  the  heavens  ! 

Pro.    Mark  his  condition,  and  the  event ;  then 

tell  me, 
If  this  might  be  a  brother. 

Mir  a.  I  should  sin 

To  think  but  nobly  of  my  grandmother  : 
Good  wombs  have  borne  bad  sons. 

Pro.  Now  the  condition. 

This  king  of  Naples,  being  an  enemy 
To  me  inveterate,  hearkens  my  brothel's  suit ; 
Which  was,  that  he  in  lieu13  o'  the  premises,  — 
Of  homage,  and  I  know  not  how  much  tribute,  — 
Should  presently  extirpate  me  and  mine 
Out  of  the  dukedom  ;  and  confer  fair  Milan, 
With  all  the  honours,  on  my  brother :  Whereon, 
A  treacherous  army  levied,  one  midnight 
Fated  to  the  purpose,  did  Antonio  open 
The  gates  of  Milan ;  and,  i'  the  dead  of  darkness, 
The  ministers  for  the  purpose  hurried  thence 
Me,  and  thy  crying  self. 

Mira.  Alack,  for  pity  ! 

I,  not  rememb'ring  how  I  cried  out  then, 
Will  cry  it  o'er  again :  it  is  a  hint,14 
That  wrings  mine  eyes  to't. 

12  In  lieu  of  the  premises  ;  that  is,  «  in  consideration  of  th« 
premises,"  &c. 

14  Hint  is  here  used  for  cause  or  subject.  Thus  in  a  future 
passage  we  have  :  "  Our  hint  of  woe." 


THE    TEMPEST.  27 

Pru  Heat  a  little  further, 

And  then  I'll  bring  thee  to  the  present  business 
Which  now's  upon  us ;   without  the  which,  tlus  story 
Were  most  impertinent. 

Mira.  Wherefore  did  they  not 

That  hour  destroy  us  ? 

Pro.  Well  demanded,  wench  : 

My  tale  provokes  that  question.  Dear,  they  durst  not, 
So  dear  the  love  rny  people  bore  me,  nor  set 
A  mark  so  bloody  on  the  business  ;  but 
With  colours  fairer  painted  their  foul  ends. 
In  few,  they  hurried  us  aboard  a  bark  ; 
Bore  us  some  leagues  to  sea,  where  they  prepar'd 
A  rotten  carcass  of  a  boat,  not  rigg'd, 
Nor  tackle,  sail,  nor  mast ;  the  very  rats 
Instinctively  have  quit 1S  it :  there  they  hoist  us, 
To  cry  to  the  sea  that  roar'd  to  us ;  to  sigh 
To  the  winds,  whose  pity,  sighing  back  again, 
Did  us  but  loving  wrong. 

Mira.  Alack  !   what  trouble 

Was  I  then  to  you  ! 

Pro.  O  !   a  cheruhin 

Thou  wast,  that  did  preserve  me  !    Thou  didst  smile, 
Infused  with  a  fortitude  from  heaven, 
When  I  have  deck'd  16  the  sea  with  drops  full  salt ; 
Under  my  burden  groan 'd  ;  which  rais'd  in  mo 
An  undergoing  stomach,17  to  bear  up 
Against  what  should  ensue. 

16  Quit  was  commonly  used  for  quitted. 

16  There   is   a   good    deal  of  douhl  as  to  what  sense  this  word 
is  here  used  in,  —  whether  it  be  to  adorn,  or  to  cover ;  of  which 
the  former  seems  inappropriate,  and  the  other  altogether  forced. 
Some  good   editors  think  it  should  be  de*rg'd  ;  a  word  still  used 
in  the  north  of  England  for  to  sprinkle.     This  sense  is  so   much 
better  than  either  of  the  others,  that  we  cannot  help  thinkiutr  it  the 
right  one.  H. 

17  Stomach  is  here  used  in  its  oM  seine  of  courage.  H 


28  THE    TEMPEST.  ACT  t 

Mira.  How  came  we  ashore  1 

Pro.    By  Providence  divine. 
Some  food  \ve  had,  and  some  fresh  water,  that 
A  noble  Neapolitan,  Gonzalo, 
Out  of  his  charity,  (who  being  then  appointed 
Master  of  this  design,)  did  give  us  ;  with 
Rich  garments,  linens,  stuffs,  and  necessaries, 
Which   since    have  steaded  much  :  so,  of  liis  gen- 
tleness, 

Knowing  I  lov'd  my  books,  he  furnish'd  me, 
From  my  own  library,  with  volumes  that 
[  prize  above  my  dukedom. 

Mira.  'Would  I  might 

But  ever  see  that  man  ! 

Pro.  Now  I  arise  :  — 

Sit  still,  and  hear  the  last  of  our  sea-sorrow. 
Here  in  this  island  we  arriv'd  ;  and  here 
Have  I,  thy  school-master,  made  thee  more  profit 
Than  other  princes    can,  that  have  more  time 
For  vainer  hours,  and  tutors  not  so  careful. 

Mira.     Heavens  thank  you  for't  !     And  now,  I 

pray  you,  sir, 

(For  still  'tis  beating  in  my  mind,)  your  reason 
For  raising  this  sea-storm  ? 

Pro.  Know  thus  far  forth.  — 

By  accident  most  strange,  bountiful  fortune, 
Now  my  dear  lady,  hath  mine  enemies 
Brought  to  this  shore  :    and  by  my  prescience 
1  find  my  zenith  doth  depend  upon 
A  most  auspicious  star  ;   whose  influence 
If  now  I  court  not,  but  omit,  my  fortunes 
Will  ever  after  droop.  —  Here  cease  more  questions  : 
Thou  art  inclin'd  to  sleep  ;   'tis  a  good  dulness, 
And  give  it  way.  —  I  know  thou  canst  not  choose.— 

[MIRANDA  skeps 


SC.  It.  THE    TEMPEST.  '49 

Come  away,  servant,  come  :  I  am  ready  now  ; 
Approach,  my  Ariel :  come. 

Enter  ARIEL,. 

Art.    All  hail,  groat  master  !  grave  sir,  hail  !  1 

come 

To  answer  thy  best  pleasure  ;  be't  to  fly, 
To  swim,  to  dive  into  the  fire,  to  ride 
On  the  curl'd  clouds  : 18  to  thy  strong  bidding,  task 
Ariel,  and  all  his  quality.19 

Pro.  Hast  thoii,  spirit, 

Perform'd  to  point 20  the  tempest  that  I  bade  thee  1 

An.    To  every  article. 

I  boarded  the  king's  ship  ;  now  on  the  beak, 
Now  in  the  waist,21  the  deck,  in  every  cabin, 
I  flam'd  amazement :     Sometimes,  I'd  divide, 
And  burn  in  many  places  ;  on  the  top-mast, 
The  yards,  and  bowsprit,  would  I  flame  distinctly, 
Then  meet,  and  join.     Jove's  lightnings,  the  pre- 
cursors 
O  the  dreadful  thunder-claps,  more  momentary 

18  This  is  imitated  in  Fletcher's  Faithful  Shepherdess ! 

"  tell  me,  sweetest, 
What  new  service  now  is  meetest 
For  the  satyre  ;  shall  I  stray 
In  the  middle  air,  and  stay 
The  sailing  racke,  or  nimbly  take 
Hold  by  the  moon,  and  gently  make 
Suit  to  the  pale  queen  of  night, 
For  a  beame  to  give  thee  light  ? 
ShaJl  I  dive  into  the  sea, 
And  bring  thee  coral,  making  way 
Through  the  rising  waves,"  &c. 

19  Ariel's  quality  is  not  his  confederates,  but  the  powers  of  fczi 
nature  as  a  spirit. 

40  i.  e.  to  the  minutest  article  ;  from  the  French  &  point. 
?J   Beak,  the   prow   of  the  ship  :  waist,  the   part   between   UM 
quarter-deck  and  forecastle. 


«JU  THE    TEMPEST.  ACT    1 

And   sight-out-running   were   not :    The    fire,    and 

cracks 

Of  sulphurous  roaring,  the  most  mighty  Neptune 
Seem  to  besiege,  and  make  his  bold  waves  tremble, 
Yea,  his  dread  trident  shake. 

Pro.  My  brave  spirit ' 

Who  was  so  firm,  so  constant,  that  this  coil  il 
Would  not  infect  his  reason  1 

Ari.  Not  a  soul 

But  felt  a  fever  of  the  mad,23  and  play'd 
Some  tricks  of  desperation :  All,  but  mariners, 
Plung'd  in  the  foaming  brine,  and  quit  the  vessel, 
Then  all  a-fire  with  me  :  the  king's  son,  Ferdinand, 
With  hair  up-staring,  (then  like  reeds,  not  hair,) 
Was  the   first   man   that  leap'd ;  cried,  "  Hell   is 

empty, 
And  all  the  devils  are  here." 

Pro.  Why,  that's  my  spirit ! 

But  was  not  this  nigh  shore  ? 

Ari.  Close  by,  my  master. 

Pro.     But  are  they,  Ariel,  safe  1 

Ari.  Not  a  hair  perish'd 

On  their  sustaining  garments  not  a  blemish, 
But  fresher  than  before  :    and  as  thou  bad'st  me, 
In  troops  I  have  dispers'd  them  'bout  the  isle  : 
The  king's  son  have  I  landed  by  himself; 
Whom  I  left  cooling  of  the  air  with  sighs, 
In  an  odd  angle  of  the  isle,  and  sitting, 
His  arms  in  this  sad  knot. 

Pro.  Of  the  king's  ship, 

The  mariners,  say,  how  thou  hast  dispos'd, 
And  all  the  rest  o'  the  fleet  1 


*'  Coil  is  bustle,  tumult. 

**  That  is,  such  a  fever  as  madmen  feel  when  the  frantic  fit  la 
on  them. 


SC.  n.  THE    TEMPEST.  31 

Art.  Safely  in  harbour 

Is  the  king's  ship ;  in  the  deep  nook,  where  once 
Thou  call'dst  me  up  at  midnight  to  fetch  dew 
From    the    still-vex'd    Bermoothes,24    there    she's 

hid: 

The  mariners  all  under  hatches  stow'd  ; 
Whom,    with    a    charm    join'd    to    their    suffer'd 

labour, 

I  have  left  asleep  :   and  for  the  rest  o'  the  fleet, 
Which  I  dispers'd,  they  all  have  met  again  ; 
And  are  upon  the  Mediterranean  flote,26 
Bound  sadly  home  for  Naples ; 
Supposing  that  they  saw  the  king's  ship  wreck'd, 
And  his  great  person  perish. 

Pro.  Ariel,  thy  charge 

Exactly  is  perform 'd ;   but  there's  more  work  : 
What  is  the  time  o'  the  day  1 

Ari.  Past  the  mid  season. 

Pro.    At  least  two  glasses  :    The  time  'twixt  six 

and  now 
Must  by  us  both  be  spent  most  preciously. 

Ari.     Is  there  more  toil  1     Since  thou  must  give 

me  pains, 

Let  me  remember  thee  what  thou  hast  promis'd, 
Which  is  not  yet  perform'd  me. 

Pro.  How  now  !    moody  1 

What  is't  thou  canst  demand  1 

Ari.  My  liberty. 

Pro.    Before  the  time  be  out  ?   no  more. 

Ari.  I  prithee 

*4  The  epithet  here  applied  to  the  Bermudas  will  be  best  un- 
derstood by  those  who  have  seen  the  chafing  of  the  sea  over  the 
rugged  rocks  by  which  they  are  surrounded,  and  whicn  renders 
access  to  them  so  difficult.  It  was  then  the  current  opinion  thai 
the  Bermudas  were  inhabited  by  monsters  and  devil*. 

**  i.  e.  wave,  or  the  sea.     Plot.  FR. 


$J  THE    TEMPEST.  4CT    1 

Remember,  I  have  done  thee  worthy  service  ; 
Told  thee  no  lies,  made  thee  no  mistakings,  serv'd 
Without   or  grudge    or    grumblings:    Thou   didsl 

promise 
To  bate  me  a  full  year. 

Pro.  Dost  thou  forget 

From  what  a  torment  I  did  free  thee  1 

Ari.  No. 

Pro.     Thou  dost ;  and  tliink'st  it  much,  to  tread 

the  ooze 

Of  the  salt  deep  ; 

To  run  upon  the  sharp  wind  of  the  north  ; 
To  do  me  business  in  the  veins  o'  the  earth, 
When  it  is  bak'd  with  frost. 

Ari.  I  do  not,  sir. 

Pro.     Thou   liest,   malignant   thing !    Hast  thou 

forgot 

The  foul  witch,  Sycorax,  who,  with  age  and  envy, 
Was  grown  into  a  hoop  1  hast  thou  forgot  her  ? 

Ari.     No,  sir. 

Pro.  Thou  hast :  Where  was  she  born  ? 

speak ;  tell  me. 

Ari.     Sir,  in  Argier.86 

Pro.  O !  was  she  so  ?  I  must, 

Once  in  a  month,  recount  what  thou  hast  been, 
Which  thou  forget'st.     This  damn'd  witch,  Sycorax, 
For  mischiefs  manifold,  and  sorceries  terrible 
To  enter  human  hearing,  from  Argier, 
Thou  know'st,  was  banish'd :  for  one  thing  she  did, 
They  would  not  take  her  life :   Is  not  tliis  true  ? 

Ari.    Ay,  sir. 

Pro.    This  blue-ey'd  hag  was  hither  brought  with 

child, 
And  here  was  left  by  the  sailors :  Thou,  my  slnve, 

18  The  old  English  name  of  Algiert. 


SO.   II.  THE    TEMPEST.  33 

As  thou  report's!  thyself,  wa&t  then  her  servant 

And,  for  thou  wast  a  spirit  too  delicate 

To  act  her  earthy  and  nhhorr'd  commands, 

Refusing  her  grand  hests,27  she  did  confine  thee, 

By  help  of  her  more  potent  ministers, 

And  in  her  most  unmitigable  rage, 

Into  a  cloven  pine  ;  within  which  rift 

linprison'd,  thou  didst  painfully  remain 

A  dozen  years  ;  within  which  space  she  died, 

And  left  thee  there ;    where  thou   didst   vent   thy 

groans, 

As  fast  as  mill-wheels  strike  :  Then  was  this  island 
(Save  for  the  son  that  she  did  litter  here, 
A  freckled  whelp,  hag-born)   not  honour'd  with 
A  human  shape. 

Ari.  Yes  ;  Caliban  her  son. 

Pro.     Dull  thing,  I  say  so  ;    he,  that  Caliban, 
Whom  now  I  keep  in  service.     Thou  best  know'st 
What  torment  I  did  find  thee  in:   thy  groans 
Did  make  wolves  howl,  and  penetrate  the  breasts 
Of  ever-angry  bears :    It  was  a  torment 
To  lay  upon  the  damn'd,  which  Sycorax 
Could  not  again  undo  :   it  was  mine  art, 
When  I  arriv'd,  and  heard  thee,  that  made  gape 
The  pine,  and  let  thee  out. 

Ari.  I  thank  thee,  master. 

Pro.    If  thou  more  munnur'st,  I  will  rend  an  oak, 
And  peg  thee  in  his  knotty  entrails,  till 
Thou  hast  howl'd  away  twelve  winters. 

Ari.  Pardon,  master : 

I  will  be  correspondent  to  command, 
And  do  my  spriting  gently. 

Pro.  Do  so  ;   and  after  two  days 

I  will  discharge  thee. 

17    liehests.  commtiiidn 


84  THE    TEMPEST.  ACT    I 

An.  That's  my  noble  master ! 

What  shall  I  do  ?  say  what :  what  shall  I  do  ? 

Pro,  Go,  make  thyself  like  a  nymph  o'  the  sea 

be  subject 

To  no  sight  but  thine  and  mine  ;  invisible 
To  every  eyeball  else.     Go,  take  this  shape, 
And  liither  come  in't :  go  ;  hence,  with  diligence. 

[Exit  ARIEL 

Awake,  dear  heart,  awake  !  thou  hast  slept  well : 
Awake ! 

Mira.    The  strangeness  of  your  story  put 
Heaviness  in  me. 

Pro.  Shake  it  off :   Come  on  : 

We'll  visit  Caliban,  my  slave,  who  never 
Yields  us  kind  answer. 

Mira.  'Tis  a  villain,  sir, 

I  do  not  love  to  look  on. 

Pro.  But,  as  'tis, 

We  cannot  miss  28  him :  he  does  make  our  fire, 
Fetch  in  our  wood,  and  serves  in  offices 
That  profit  us.     What  ho  !    slave  !  Caliban  ! 
Thou  earth,  thou  !    speak. 

Cal.    [Within.]        There's  wood  enough  within. 

Pro.     Come  forth,  I  say  :  there's  other  business 

for  thee  : 
Come  forth,  thou  tortoise  !  when  ? 29 

Re-enter  ARIEL,  like  a  Water-nymph. 

Fine  apparition  !  My  quaint 30  Ariel, 
Hark  in  thine  ear. 

Art.  My  lord,  it  shall  be  done.  [Exit, 

28  i.  e.  we  cannot  do  without  him.    The  phrase  is  still  common 
in  the  midland  counties. 

**  This  is  a  common  expression  of  impatience. 

80   Quaint  here  means  brisk,  from  the  French  cointe. 


C.  II.  THE    TEMPEST.  35 

Pro.     Thou   poisonous   slave,  got  by  the    devil 

himself 
Upon  thy  wicked  dam,  come  forth  ! 

Enter  CALIBAN. 

Cal.     As  wicked  dew  as  e'er  my  mother  brush'd 
With  raven's  feather  from  unwholesome  fen 
Drop  on  you  both  !  a  south-west  blow  on  ye, 
And  blister  you  all  o'er  ! 

Prn.    For  this,  be  sure,  to-night  thou  shalt  have 

cramps, 

Side-stitches  that  shall  pen  thy  breath  up  ;  urchins  3I 
Shall,  for  that  vast 34  of  night  that  they  may  work, 
All  exercise  on  thee  :  thou  shalt  be  pinch'd 
As  thick  as  honey-combs,  each  pinch  more  stinging 
Than  bees  that  made  them. 

Cal.  I  must  eat  my  dinner 

This  island's  mine,  by  Sycorax  my  mother, 
Which  thou  tak'st  from   me.      When  thou  earnest 

first, 
Thou  strok'dst  me,  and  mad'st  much  of  me ;  would'st 

give  me 

Water  with  berries  in't ;  and  teach  me  how 
To  name  the  bigger  light,  and  how  the  less, 
That  burn  by  day  and  night :  and  then  I  lov'd  theo, 
And  show'd  thee  all  the  qualities  o'  the  isle, 
The  fresh  springs,  brine    pits,  barren   place,  and 

fertile  : 

n  Urchins  were  fairies  of  a  particular  class.  Hedgehogs  were 
also  called  urchins  ;  and  it  is  probable  that  the  sprites  were  so 
named,  because  they  were  of  a  mischievous  kind,  the  urchin  being 
anciently  deemed  a  very  noxious  animal.  In  the  phrase  still  cur- 
rent. "  a  little  urchin,"  the  idea  of  the  fairy  still  remains. 

**  So  in  Hamlet,  Act  i.  sc.  2,  "  in  the  dead  vast  and  middle 
of  the  night;  "moaning  the  silent  void  or  vacancy  of  night,  when 
spirits  were  anciently  supposed  to  walk  abroad  on  errands  o/ 
love,  or  sport.  01  mischief.  H. 


.5(5  THE    TEMPEST.  ACT    1- 

Cursed  he  I  that  did  so  !  —  All  the  charms 
Of  Sycorax,  toads,  beetles,  hats,  light  on  you  ! 
For  I  am  all  the  subjects  that  you  have, 
Which  first  was  mine  own  king :  and  here  you  sty 

me 

In  tliis  hard  rock,  whiles  you  do  keep  from  me 
The  rest  o'  the  island. 

Pro.  Thou  most  lying  slave, 

Whom  stripes  may  move,  not  kindness,  I  have  us'd 

thee, 

Filth  as  thou  art,  with  human  care  ;   and  lodg'd  thee 
In  mine  own  cell,  till  thou  didst  seek  to  violate 
The  honor  of  my  child. 

Cal.     O  ho,  O  ho  !  —  'would  it  had  been  done  > 
Thou  didst  prevent  me ;  I  had  peopled  else 
Tliis  isle  with  Calibans. 

Pro.  Abhorred  slave, 

Which  any  print  of  goodness  will  not  take, 
Being  capable  of  all  ill !     I  pitied  thee, 
Took  pains  to  make  thee  speak,  taught  thee  each 

hour 

One  thing  or  other  :  when  thou  didst  not,  savage, 
Know  thine  own  meaning,  but  would'st  gabble  like 
A  thing  most  brutish,  I  endow'd  thy  purposes 
With  words  that  made  them  known  :    But   thy  vile 

race, 
Though  thou  didst  learn,  had  that  in't  which  good 

natures 

Could  not  abide  to  be  with  ;  therefore  waet  thou 
Deservedly  confin'd  into  this  rock, 
Who  hadst  deserv'd  more  than  a  prison. 

Cal.  You  taught  me  language ;  and  my  profit  on'l 
Is,  I  know  how  to  curse  :  The  red  plague  rid 33  you. 
For  learning  me  your  language  ! 

83  Destroy. 


SC.   11.  THE    TEMPEST.  117 

Pro.  Hag-seed,  hence ! 

Fetch  us  in  fuel  ;  and  be  quick,  thoti  wert  best, 
To  answer  other  business.     Shrug'st  thou,  malice  1 
If  thou  neglect'st,  or  dost  unwillingly 
What  I  command,  I'll  rack  thee  with  old  cramps ; 
Fill  all  thy  bones  with  aches;  34  make  thee  roar, 
That  beasts  shall  tremble  at  thy  din. 

Cal  No,  'pray  thee  !  — 

[Aside.]     I  must  obey :  his  art  is  of  such  power, 
It  would  control  my  dam's  god,  Setebos,34 
And  make  a  vassal  of  him. 

Pro.  So,  slave  ;  hence  ! 

[Exit  CALIBAN, 

Re-enter  ARIEL  invisible,  playing  and  singing ; 
FERDINAND  fullmoing  him. 

ARIEL'S  Song.^ 

Come  unto  these  yellow  sands, 
And  then  take  hands : 

**  Ac'nts  was  formerly  a  word  of  two  syllables,  and  is  required 
by  the  measure  to  he  so  here.  Of  this  there  are  many  examples 
in  the  old  writers.  Some  of  our  readers  may  have  heard  of  the 
clamour  that  was  raised  against  Kemble  for  pronouncing1  the  word 
thus  on  the  stage  x  wherein  some  may  still  think  he  followed  an 
old  custom  at  the  expense  of  good  judgment.  H. 

35  Setebos  was  the  name  of  an  American  god,  or  rather  devil, 
worshipped  by  the  Patagonians.  In  Eden's  "  History  cf  Tra- 
vaile/'  printed  in  1577,  is  an  account  of  Magellan's  voyage  to  the 
South  Pole,  containing  a  description  of  this  god  and  his  worship- 
pers ;  wherein  the  author  says  .  "  When  they  felt  the  shackles 
fast  about  their  legs,  they  began  to  doubt ;  but  the  captain  did 
put  them  in  comfort  and  bade  them  stand  still.  In  fine,  when  they 
saw  how  they  were  deceived,  they  roared  like  bulls,  and  cryed 
upon  their  great  devil  Setebos,  to  help  them."  Sycorax,  as  we 
have  seen,  was  from  Algiers,  where  she  doubtless  learned  to  wor- 
ship this  god.  So  that  here  the  Poet  has  but  transferred  into  the 
neighbourhood  of  his  scene  the  matter  of  some  of  the  then  recent 
dis"*-  -eries  in  America.  H. 


38  THE    TEMPEST.  ACT    I 

Court'sied  when  you  have,  and  kisa'd 

The  wild  waves  whist,38 
Foot  it  featly  here  and  there ; 
And,  sweet  sprites,  the  burden  bear. 

Hark,  hark ! 
Burden.    [Dispersedly.]     Bowgh,  wowgh. 

The  watch-dogs  bark : 
Burden.   [Dispersedly.]    Bowgh,  wowgh. 

Hark,  hark !  I  hear 

The  strain  of  strutting  chanticlere 

Cry,  Cock-a-doodle-doo. 

Far.     Where   should  this  music  be  1  i'  the  air, 

or  the  earth  ? 

It  sounds  no  more  ;  —  and  sure,  it  waits  upon 
Some  god  o'  the  island.      Sitting  on  a  bank, 
Weeping  again  the  king  my  father's  wreck, 
This  music  crept  by  me  upon  the  waters ; 
Allaying  both  their  fury,  and  my  passion, 
With  its  sweet  air :  thence  I  have  follow'd  it, 
Or  it  hath  drawn  me  rather  :  —  But  'tis  gone. 
No,  it  begins  again. 

ARIEL  sings. 

Full  fathom  five  thy  father  lies ; 

Of  his  bones  are  coral  made : 
Those  are  pearls  that  were  his  eyea 

Nothing  of  him  that  doth  fade, 
But  doth  suffer  a  sea-change 
Into  something  rich  and  strange. 
Sea-nymphs  hourly  ring  his  kneil : 
Burden.  Ding-dong. 

Hark    now  I  hear  them,  —  ding-dong,  bell. 

Fer.    The    ditty    does    remember    my  drown  1 
father.  — 

M  i.  e.  •' court'sied  and  kiss'd  the  wild  waves"  into  silence;  — 
ft  delicate  touch  of  poetry  that  is  quite  lost,  as  the  passage  is 
usually  printed  ;  tin;  line,  The  wild  wares  wlilst,  l»ein£  maHf 


»C.  II.  THE    TEMPEST.  39 

This  is  no  mortal  business,  nor  no  sound 

That  the  earth  owes  : 37 — I  hear  it  now  above  me. 

Pro.    The  fringed  curtains  of  tliine  eye  advance, 
And  say,  what  thou  seest  yond'. 

Mira.  What  is't  1  a  spirit  1 

Lord,  how  it  looks  about !     Believe  me,  sir, 
It  carries  a  brave  form  :  —  But  'tis  a  spirit. 

Pro.     No,  wench  :  it  eats  and  sleeps,  and  hath 

such  senses 

As  we  have,  such.    This  gallant,  which  thou  seest, 
Was  in  the  wreck  ;  and,  but  he's  something  stain'd 
With  grief,  that's  beauty's  canker,  thou  might'st  call 

him 

A  goodly  person.      He  hath  lost  his  fellows, 
And  strays  about  to  find  them. 

Mira.  I  might  call  hiro 

A  tiling  divine  ;  for  nothing  natural 
I  ever  saw  so  noble. 

Pro.     [Asia*:]  It  goes  on,  I  see, 

As  my  soul   prompts  it :  —  Spirit,  fine   spirit  !     I'll 

free  thee 
Within  two  days  for  this. 

Per.  Most  sure,  the  goddess 

On    whom    these    airs    attend! — Vouchsafe,    my 

prayer 

May  know,  if  you  remain  upon  this  island  ; 
And  that  you  will  some  good  instruction  give, 
How  I  may  bear  me  here :  My  prime  request, 
Which  I  do  last  pronounce,  is,  O  you  wonder  ! 
If  you  be  maid,38  or  no  1 

parenthetical,  and  that  too  without  any  authority  from  the  original 
Such  are  the  improvements  sometimes  foisted  in  by  those  who 
prefer  grammar  to  poetry,  and  cannot  read  a  song  without  think 
ing  of  Syntax.  H. 

17  i.  e.  owns.   To  owe  was  to  possess  or  own,  in  ancient  language, 
*  Ferdinand   has  already  spoken  of  Miranda  as   a   goddess 


40  THE    TEMPEST.  ACT   I 

Mira.  No  wonder,  sir  ; 

But,  certainly  a  maid. 

FIT.  My  language  !   heavens  !  — 

I  am  the  best  of  them  that  speak  this  speech, 
Were  I  but  where  'tis  spoken. 

Pro.  How  !    the  best  ? 

What  wert  thou,  if  the  king  of  Naples  heard  thee  1 

Fer.    A  single  thing,39  as  I  am  now,  that  wonders 
To  hear  thee  speak  of  Naples :   He  does  hear  me ; 
And,  that  he  does,  I  weep  :  myself  am  Naples  ; 
Who  with  mine  eyes,  ne'er  since  at  ebb,  beheld 
The  king  my  father  wreck'd. 

Mira.  Alack,  for  mercy  ! 

Fcr.     Yes,  faith,  and  all  his  lords ;  the  duke  of 

Milan, 
A.nd  his  brave  son,  being  twain. 

Pro.  The  duke  of  Milan, 

And  his  more  braver  daughter,  could  control 40  thee, 
If  now  'twere  fit  to  do't.  —  [Aside.]     At  the  first  sight 
They  have  chang'd  eyes  :  —  Delicate  Ariel, 
I'll  set  thee  free  for  this  !  —  [To  FERD.]    A  word, 

good  sir  : 
I  fear,  you  have  done  yourself  some  wrong : 41  a  word- 

Mira.    Why  speaks  my  father  so  ungently  1    This 
Is  the  third  man  that  e'er  I  saw  ;  the  first 
That  e'er  I  sigh'd  for  :  Pity  move  my  father 
To  be  inclin'd  my  way  ! 

he  now  asks,  if  she  be  a  mortal ;  not  a  celestial  being,  but  a 
maiden.  Of  course  her  answer  is  to  be  taken  in  the  same  sense 
as  his  question.  H. 

39  i.  e.  a  weak,  feeble  thing.     The  Poet  elsewhere  uses  single 
in  this  sense ;  as  in  Macbeth  :  "  Shakes  so  my  single  state  of 
man."  H. 

40  To  control  here  signifies  to  confute,  to  contradict  unanswer- 
ably.    The  ancient  meaning  of  control  was  to  check  or  exhibit  a 
contrary  account,  from  the  old  French  contre-roller. 

*l  i.  e.    lone  wrong  to  your  character,  in   claiming  to  r»e  king 
*f  Naples 


SO.   II.  THE    TEMPEST.  41 

Fcr.  O  !  if  a  virgin, 

And  your  affection  not  gone  forth,  I'll  make  you 
The  queen  of  Naples. 

Pro.  Soft,  sir  :  one  word  more.  — 

[Aside.]    They  are  both  in  either's  powers  :  but  this 

swift  business 

I  must  uneasy  make,  lest  too  light  winning 
Make   the   prize   light.  —  [To   FERD.]    One  word 

more  :  I  charge  thee, 

That  thou  attend  me  :  thou  dost  here  usurp 
The  name  thou  ow'st  not ;  and  hast  put  thyself 
Upon  this  island,  as  a  spy,  to  win  it 
From  me,  the  lord  on't. 

Fer.  No,  as  I  am  a  man. 

Mira.     There's  nothing  ill  can  dwfell  in  such  a 

temple  : 

If  the  ill  spirit  have  so  fair  a  house, 
Good  things  will  strive  to  dwell  with't. 

Pro.    [  To  FERD.]  Follow  me.  — 

Speak  not  you  for  him  ;  he's  a  traitor.  —  Come 
I'll  manacle  thy  neck  and  feet  together ; 
Sea-water  shall  thou  drink,  thy  food  shall  be 
The  fresh-brook  muscles,  wither'd  roots,  and  husks, 
Wherein  the  acorn  cradled  :  Follow. 

Fer.  No : 

I  will  resist  such  entertainment,  till 
Mine  enemy  has  more  power. 

[He  draws,  and  is  charmed  from  moving 

JUira.  O  dear  father, 

Make  not  too  rash  a  trial  of  him,  for 
He's  gentle,  and  not  fearful. 

Pro.  What  !    I  say  : 

My  foot  my  tutor  !  —  Put  thy  sword  up,  traitor  ; 
Who,  mak'st  a  show,  but  dar'st  not  strike,  thy  con- 
science 


42  THE    TEMPEST.  ACT    I. 

Is  so  possess'd  with  guilt :  come  from  thy  ward  ; 4° 
For  I  can  here  disarm  thee  with  tliis  stick, 
And  make  thy  weapon  drop. 

Mira.  Beseech  you,  father  ! 

Pro.     Hence  !  hang  not  on  my  garments. 

Mira.  Sir,  have  pity  : 

111  be  liis  surety. 

Pro.  Silence  !  one  word  more 

Shall  make  me  elude  thee,  if  not  hate  thee.    What ! 
An  advocate  for  an  impostor  1  hush  ! 
Thou  think'st  there  are  no  more  such  shapes  as  he, 
Having  seen  but  liim  and  Caliban  :  Foolish  wench ! 
To  the  most  of  men  this  is  a  Caliban, 
And  they  to  him  are  angels. 

Mira.  My  affections 

Are  then  most  humble  :  I  have  no  ambition 
To  see  a  goodlier  man. 

Pro.     [  To  FEKD.]  Come  on ;  obey : 

Thy  nerves  are  in  their  infancy  again, 
And  have  no  vigor  in  them. 

Fer.  So  they  are  : 

My  spirits,  as  in  a  dream,  are  all  bound  up. 
My  father's  loss,  the  weakness  which  I  feel, 
The  wreck  of  all  my  friends,  or  this  man's  threats, 
To  whom  I  am  subdued,  are  but  light  to  me, 
Might  I  but  through  my  prison  once  a  day 
Behold  this  maid  :  all  corners  else  o'  the  earth 
Let  liberty  make  use  of;  space  enough 
Have  I  in  such  a  prison. 

Pro.     [Aside.]    It  works.  —  [To  FERD.  and  MIR  A. 

Come  on.  — 

Thou  hast  done  well,  fine  Ariel !  —  Follow  me.  — 
[  To  ARIEL.]    Hark,  what  then  else  shalt  do  me. 

Mira.  Be  of  comfort : 

41  i.  e.  posture  of  defence. 


SC.   II.  THE     TEMPEST.  43 

My  father's  of  a  better  nature,  sir, 

Than  he  appears  by  speech :  tliis  is  unwonted, 

Which  now  came  from  him. 

Pro.  Thou  shall  be  as  free 

As  mountain  winds  :  but  then  exactly  do 
All  points  of  my  command. 

Ari.  To  the  syllable. 

Pro.  Come,  follow:  Speak  not  for  him.  [Exeunt 


ACT   II. 

SCENE    I.     Another  part  of  the  Island. 

Enter   ALONZO,    SEBASTIAN,    ANTONIO,    GONZALO, 
ADRIAN,    FRANCISCO,    and   ot/iers. 

Gon.     'Beseech  you,  sir,  be   merry  :  you  hare 

cause 

(So  have  we  all)  of  joy;  for  our  escape 
Is  much  beyond  our  loss :  Our  liint  of  woe ' 
Is  common :  every  day,  some  sailor's  wife, 
The  masters  of  some  merchant,2  and  the  merchant, 
Have  just  our  theme  of  woe ;  but  for  the  miracle, 
I  mean  our  preservation,  few  in  millions 
Can  speak  like  us:  then  wisely,  good  sir,  weigh 
Our  sorrow  with  our  comfort. 

Alon.  Pr'ythee,  peace. 

Scb.    He  receives  comfort  like  cold  porridge. 

Ant.    The  visitor3  will  not  give  him  o'er  so. 

Seb.    Look ;   he's  winding   up  the  watch  of  Ins 
wit :  by  and  by  it  will  strike. 

1  i.  c.  cause  of  sorrow. 

'  It  was  usual  to  call  a  merchant-vessel  a  merchant,  as  we  now 
Bay  a  merchant-man. 

*  He  calls  Gonzalo  the  risitor,  in  allusion  to  the  office  of  on* 
who  visits  the  sick  to  give  advice  and  consolation. 


44  THE    TEMPEST.  ACT  II 


don.     Sir, 


Scb.     One: Tell. 

Gon.     When    every  grief   is    entertain'd,    that's 

offer'd, 
Comes  to  the  entertainer  — 

Seb.  A  dollar. 

Gon.  Dolour  comes  to  him,  indeed:  you  have 
spoken  truer  than  you  purposed. 

Seb.  You  have  taken  it  wiselier  than  I  meant 
you  should. 

Gon.    Therefore,  my  lord, — 

Ant.    Fie,  what  a  spendthrift  is  he  of  his  tongue  i 

Alon.     I  pr'ythee,  spare. 

Gon.     Well,  I  have  done :  But  yet  — 

Seb.    He  will  he  talking. 

Ant.  Which  of  them,  he,  or  Adrian,  for  a  good 
wager,  Qrst  begins  to  crow  1 

Scb.     The  old  cock. 

Ant.     The  cockrel. 

Seb.     Done:     The  wager? 

Ant.     A  laughter. 

Seb.     A  match. 

Adr.     Though  this  island  seem  to  be  desert,— 

Ant.     Ha,  ha,  ha! 

Seb.     So,  you're  paid. 

Adr.     Uninhabitable,  and  almost  inaccessible, — 

Seb.     Yet  — 

Adr.     Yet  — 

Ant.     He  coula  not  miss  it. 

Adr  It  must  needs  be  of  subtle,  tender,  and 
delicate  temperance.4 

Ant.     Temperance  was  a  delicate  wench. 

4  By  temperance  Adrian  means  temperature,  and  Antonio  plays 
upon  thfl  word  ;  doubtless  an  allusion  to  the  Puritan  custom  of 
bestowing  the  names  of  the  cardinal  virtues  upon  their  children 

H 


SC.  I.  THE     TEMPEST.  45 

Scb.  Ay,  and  a  subtle;  as  he  most  learnedly 
delivered. 

Adr.    The  air  breathes  upon  us  here  most  sweetly 

Scb.     As  if  it  had  lungs,  and  rotten  ones. 

Ant.     Or  as  'twere  perfum'd  by  a  fen. 

Gon.     Here  is  every  tiling  advantageous  to  life. 

Ant.    True  ;  save  means  to  live. 

Seb.     Of  that  there's  none,  or  little. 

Gon,  How  lush5  and  lusty  the  grass  looks!  how 
green ! 

Ant.     The  ground,  indeed,  is  tawny. 

Scb.     With  an  eye  6  of  green  in't. 

Ant.     He  misses  riot  much. 

Scb.     No ;  he  doth  but  mistake  the  truth  totally. 

Gon.  But  the  rarity  of  it  is,  which  is  indeed 
almost  beyond  credit, — 

Seb.     As  many  vouch'd  rarities  are. 

Gon.  — that  our  garments,  being,  as  they  were, 
drenched  in  the  sea,  hold,  notwithstanding,  their 
freshness,  and  glosses  ;  being  rather  new  dyed  than 
stain'd  with  salt  water. 

Ant.  If  but  one  of  his  pockets  could  speak, 
would  it  not  say,  he  lies  ? 

Scb.     Ay,  or  very  falsely  pocket  up  his  report. 

Gon.  Methinks,  our  garments  are  now  as  fresh 
as  when  we  put  them  on  first  in  Afric,  at  the  mar- 
riage of  the  king's  fair  daughter  Claribel  to  the 
king  of  Tunis. 

Scb.  'Twas  a  sweet  marriage,  and  we  prosper 
well  in  our  return. 

Adr.  Tunis  was  never  grac'd  before  with  such 
a  paragon  to  their  queen. 

*  i.  e.  juicy,  succulent. 

8  A  tint  or  tinge  of  green.  So  in  Sandy's  Travels :  "  (/!  >th 
of  silver,  tissued  with  an  eye  of  ^reen ; "  and  Bayle  says.  "  Km) 
•with  an  eye  of  blue  makes  a  purple  "  H 


46  THE    TEMPEST.  ACT   II 

Gon.     Not  since  widow  Dido's  time. 

Ant.  Widow  1  a  pox  o'  that !  How  came  that 
widow  in  7  Widow  Dido ! 

Scb.  What  if  he  had  said  widower  ^Eneas  too  1 
good  lord,  how  you  take  it ! 

Adr.  Widow  Dido,  said  you  ?  you  make  mo 
study  of  that :  she  was  of  Carthage,  not  of  Tunis. 

Gon.     This  Tunis,  sir,  was  Carthage. 

Adr.     Carthage  ? 

Gon.     I  assure  you,  Carthage. 

Ant.  His  word  is  more  than  the  miraculous 
harp.7 

Seb.     He  hath  rais'd  the  wall,  and  houses  too. 

Ant.  What  impossible  matter  will  he  make  easy 
next  ? 

Scb.  I  think  he  will  carry  this  island  home  in 
Ids  pocket,  and  give  it  his  son  for  an  apple. 

Ant.  And  sowing  the  kernels  of  it  in  the  sea, 
bring  forth  more  islands. 

Gon.     Ay  ? 

Ant.     Why,  in  good  time. 

Gon.  Sir,  we  were  talking,  that  our  garments 
seem  now  as  fresh  as  when  we  were  at  Tunis  at 
the  marriage  of  your  daughter,  who  is  now  queen. 

Ant.    And  the  rarest  that  e'er  came  there. 

Seb.     'Bate,  I  beseech  you,  widow  Dido. 

Ant.     O!   widow  Dido  ;   ay,  widow  Dido. 

Gon.  Is  not,  sir,  my  doublet  as  fresh  as  the  first 
day  I  wore  it  ?  I  mean,  in  a  sort. 

Ant.    That  sort  was  well  fish'd  for. 

7  Alluding  to 

«  The  Gift  to  king  Amphion 
That  walled  a  city  with  its  melody." 

A  lute  was  given  to  Amphion  by  Mercury,  and  with  it  he  mar 
dialled  the  stones  of  TL  ;bes  into  their  place*,  n 


sJC.   I.  THE     TEMPEST  4^ 

Gon.    When  I  wore  it  at  your  daughter's  mar 
riage? 

Alan.    You  cram  tliese  words  into   mine  ears, 

against 

The  stomach  of  my  sense :    'Would  I  had  never 
Married  my  daughter  there !  for,  coming  thence, 
My  son  is  lost ;  and,  in  my  rate,  she  too, 
Who  is  so  far  from  Italy  remov'd, 
I  ne'er  again  shall  see  her.     O  thou  mine  heir 
Of  Naples  and  of  Milan  !   what  strange  fish 
Hath  made  his  meal  on  thee  1 

Fran.  Sir,  he  may  live : 

[  saw  him  beat  the  surges  under  him, 
And  ride  upon  their  backs:  he  trod  the  water, 
Whose  enmity  he  flung  aside,  and  breasted 
The  surge  most  swoln  that  met  him :   his  bold  head 
'Bove  the  contentious  waves  he  kept,  and  oar'd 
Himself  with  liis  good  arms  in  lusty  stroke 
To  the  shore,  that  o'er  his  wave-worn  basis  bow'd, 
As  stooping  to  relieve  liim :  I  not  doubt, 
He  came  alive  to  land. 

Alon.  No,  no;  he's  gone. 

Scb.     Sir,  you  may  thank  yourself  for  this  great 

loss; 

That  would  not  bless  our  Europe  with  your  daughter, 
But  rather  lose  her  to  an  African  ; 
Where  she,  at  least,  is  banish'd  from  your  eye, 
Who  hath  cause  to  wet  the  grief  ori't.8 

Alon.  Pr'ythee,  peace. 

St  6.    You    were    kneel'd    to,    and    importun'd 

otherwise 
By  all  of  us;  and  the  fair  soul  herself 

8  The  meaning  of  this  line  will  he  clear  enough.  If  wht>  b«  un 
derstood  as  referring  to  rye,  \Vlw  aud  tcfiicft  were  often  used 
indiscriminately.  u 


48  THE    TEMP2.ST.  ACT  11. 

Weigh'd,  between  loathness  and  obedience,  at 
Wliich  end  o'  the  beam  she'd  bow.9     We  have  lost 

your  son, 

I  fear,  for  ever:  Milan  and  Naples  have 
More  widows  in  them  of  this  business'  making, 
Than  we  bring  men  to  comfort  them :  the  fault's 
Your  own. 

Alon.     So  is  the  dear'st  o'   the  loss. 

Gon.  My  lord  Sebastian, 

The  truth  you  speak  doth  lack  some  gentleness, 
And  time  to  speak  it  in :  you  rub  the  sore, 
When  you  should  bring  the  plaster. 

Seb.  Very  well. 

Ant.     And  most  chirurgeonly. 

Gon.     It  is  foul  weather  in  us  all,  good  sir, 
When  you  are  cloudy. 

Seb.  Foul  weather  ? 

Ant.  Very  foul 

Gon.     Had  I    plantation  of  this  isle,  my  lord,  — 

Ant.     He'd  sow't  with  nettle-seed. 

Seb.  Or  docks,  or  mallows. 

Gon.    And  were  the  king  on't,  what  would  I  do  1 

Seb.    'Scape  being  drunk,  for  want  of  wine. 

Gon.    I'  the  commonwealth  I  would  by  contraries 
Execute  all  tilings :  for  no  kind  of  traffic 
Would  I  admit ;  no  name  of  magistrate ; 
Letters  should  not  be  known ;   riches,  poverty, 
And  use  of  service,  none ;  contract,  succession 
Bourn,  bound  of  land,  tilth,  vineyard,  none: 
No  use  of  metal,  corn,  or  wine,  or  oil: 
No  occupation  ;  ail  men  idle,  all ; 
And  women  too ;  but  innocent  and  pure : 
No  sovereignty :  — 

*  i.  e.  she  was   in   doubt   towards  which   scale  of  the  balanc* 
«h»!  should  mcliuu.  H. 


•Mi    I.  THE    TEMPEST.  4i) 

Scb.  Yet  he  would  be  king  on't. 

Ant.  The  latter  end  of  his  commonwealth  for- 
gets the  beginning. 

Gon.  All  things  in  common  nature  should  produce 
Without  sweat  or  endeavour :  treason,  felony, 
Sword,  pike,  knife,  gun,  or  need  of  any  engine,1" 
Would  1  not  have ;  but  nature  should  bring  forth, 
Of  its  own  kind,  all  foison,11  all  abundance, 
To  feed  my  innocent  people. 

Scb.     No  marrying  'mong  his  subjects  ? 

Ant.     None,  man ;  all  idle  ;  whores,  and  knaves 

Gon.     I  would  with  such  perfection  govern,  sir, 
To  excel  the  golden  age.12 

Seb.  'Save  his  majesty  ! 

Ant.     Long  live  Gonzalo  ! 

Gon.  And,  do  you  mark  me,  sir  ?  — 

Alon.     Pr'ythee,  no  more :  thou  dost  talk  noth- 
ing to  me. 

Gon.     I  do  well  believe  your  highness ;  and  did 

10  An   engine  was   a  term   applied  to  any  kind  of  machine  in 
Shakespeare's  age. 

11  Foison  is  only  another  word  for  plenty  or  abundance  of  pro- 
vision, but  chiefly  of  the  fruits  of  the  earth. 

"  In  Montaigne's  Essay  "  Of  the  Cannibals,"  translated  by 
Florio  in  1603,  is  the  following :  "  Me  seemeth  that  what  in 
those  nations  we  see  by  experience,  doth  not  only  exceed  all  ihe 
pictures  wherewith  licentious  poesy  hath  proudly  embellished  the 
golden  age,  and  all  her  quaint  inventions  to  feign  a  happy  condi- 
tion of  man,  but  also  the  conception  and  desire  of  philosophy 
—  It  is  a  nation,  would  I  answer  Plato,  that  hath  no  kind  of  traffic, 
no  knowledge  of  letters,  no  intelligence  of  numbers,  no  name  of' 
magistrate,  nor  of  politic  superiority ;  no  use  of  service,  of  richer, 
or  of  poverty  ;  no  contracts,  no  successions,  no  dividences  ;  no 
occupation,  but  idle  ;  no  respect  of  kindred,  but  common  ;  no 
apparel,  but  natural ;  no  manuring  of  lands ;  no  use  of  wine 
corn,  or  metal.  The  very  words  that  import  lying,  falsehood 
treason,  dissimulation,  covetousness,  envy,  detraction,  and  pardon 
were  never  hoard  amongst  thrin."  From  which  it  is  piain  enough, 
that  Montaigne  and  Gonzak  aust  have  been  together,  and  "  fed 
on  one  thought  ''  u 


50  THE    TEMPEST.  ACT  II. 

it  to  minister  occasion  to  these  gentlemen,  who  are 
of  such  sensible  and  nimble  lungs,  that  they  always 
use  to  laugh  at  nothing. 

Ant,    'Twas  you  we  laugh'd  at. 

Gon.  Who,  in  this  kind  of  merry  fooling,  am 
nothing  to  you:  so  you  may  continue,  and  laugh 
at  notlung  still. 

Ant.     What  a  blow  was  there  given! 

Seb.     An  it  had  not  fallen  flat-long. 

Gon.  You  are  gentlemen  of  brave  mettle:  you 
would  lift  the  moon  out  of  her  sphere,  if  she  would 
continue  in  it  five  weeks  without  changing. 

Enter  ARIEL  invisible,  playing  solemn  music. 

Seb.    We  would  so,  and  then  go  a  bat-fowling. 

Ant.     Nay,  good  my  lord,  be  not  angry. 

Gon.  No,  I  warrant  you  ;  I  will  not  adventurn 
my  discretion  so  weakly.  Will  you  laugh  me  asleep 
for  I  am  very  heavy  1 

Ant.     Go  sleep,  and  hear  us. 

[All  sleep  but  ALON.  SEB.  and  ANT. 

Alan.    What!  all  so   soon  asleep?  I  wish  mine 

eyes 
Would,  with  themselves,  shut  up  my  thoughts:    I 

find, 
They  are  inclin'd  to  do  so. 

Seb.  Please  you,  sir, 

Do  net  omit  the  heavy  offer  of  it: 
It  seldom  visits  sorrow;  when  it  doth, 
It  is  a  comforter. 

Ant.  We  two,  my  lord, 

Will  guard  your  person,  while  you  take  your  rest, 
And  watch  your  safety. 

Alon.  Thank  you  :   Wondrous  heavy 

[ALONZO  sleeps.    Exit  ARIEL 


9C.  I.  THE    TEMPEST.  51 

»Scb.     What  a  strange  drowsiness  possesses  them 

Ant.     It  is  the  quality  o'  the  climate. 

Seb  Why 

Doth  it  not  then  our  eye-lids  sink  1      I  find  not 
Myself  dispos'd  to  sleep. 

Ant.  Nor  I :  my  spirits  are  nimble. 

They  fell  together  all,  as  by  consent ; 
They  dropp'd,  as  by  a  thunder-stroke.     What  might 
Worthy     Sebastian  !  13  —  O,     what     might  !  —  No 

more  :  — 

And  yet,  methinks,  I  see  it  in  thy  face, 
What    thou    should'st   be :     The    occasion    speaks 

thee ;  and 

My  strong  imagination  sees  a  crown 
Dropping  upon  thy  head. 

Scb.  What !  art  thou  waking  1 

Ant.     Do  you  not  hear  me  speak  ? 

Stb.  1  do  ;  and,  surely, 

It  is  a  sleepy  language ;  and  thou  speak'st 
Out  of  thy  sleep  :  What  is  it  thou  didst  say  1 
This  is  a  strange  repose,  to  be  asleep 
With  eyes  wide  open ;  standing,  speaking,  moving, 
And  yet  so  fast  asleep. 

Ant.  Noble  Sebastian, 

Thou  let'st  thy  fortune  sleep  —  die  rather;  wink's! 
Whiles  thou  art  waking. 

Scb.  Thou  dost  snore  distinctly 

There's  meaning  in  thy  snores. 

Ant.     I  am  more  serious  than  my  custom  :  you 
Must  be  so  too,  if  heed  me ;   which  to  do, 
Trebles  thee  o'er.14 

Scb.  Well ;   I  am  standing  water. 

Ant.     I'll  teach  you  how  to  flow. 

13  Understand  be  after  Sebastian.  H 

14  i  e.  makes  tliee  three  times  what  thou  art  now.          v 


52  THE     TEMPEST  ACT  II. 

Stb.  Do  so  :  to  ebb. 

Hereditary  sloth  instructs  thee. 

Ant.  O ! 

[f  you  but  knew  how  you  the  purpose  cherish, 
Whiles  thus  you  mock  it !   how,  in  stripping  it, 
You  more  invest  it !     Ebbing  men,  indeed, 
Most  often  do  so  near  the  bottom  run 
By  their  own  fear,  or  sloth. 

Seb.  Pr'ythee,  say  on : 

The  setting  of  thine  eye,  and  cheek,  proclaim 
A  matter  from  thee ;  arid  a  birth,  indeed, 
Which  throes  thee  much  to  yield. 

Ant.  Thus,  sir: 

Although  this  lord  of  weak  remembrance,  this, 
(Who  shall  be  of  as  little  memory, 
When  he  is  earth'd,)  hath  here  almost  persuaded 
(For  he's  a  spirit  of  persuasion,  only 
Professes  to  persuade)   the  king   his  son's  alive ; 
'Tis  as  impossible  that  he's  undrown'd, 
As  he,  that  sleeps  here,  swims. 

Seb.  I  have  no  hope 

That  he's  undrown'd. 

Ant.  O  !  out  of  that  no  hope, 

What  great  hope  have  you  !   no  hope,  that  way,  its 
Another  way  so  high  a  hope,  that  even 
Ambition  cannot  pierce  a  wink  beyond, 
But    doubts  discovery  there.     Will  you  grant,  with 

me, 
That  Ferdinand  is  drown 'd  1 

Seb.  He's  gone. 

Ant.  Then  tell  me 

Who's  the  next  heir  of  Naples  1 

Seb.  Claribel. 

Ant     She  that  is  queen  of  Tunis ;  she  that  dwells 
Ten  leagues  beyond  man's  life  ;  she  that  from  Naples 


«iC.  I-  THE    TEMPEST.  53 

Can  have  no  note,  unless  the  sun  were  post, 

(The  man  i'  the  moon's  too  slow,)  till  new-horn  china 

Be  rough  and  razorable :  she,  from  whom 

We  all  were  sea-swallow'd,  though  some  cast  again  ; 

And,  by  that  destiny,15  to  perform  an  act, 

Whereof  what's  past  is  prologue  ;  what  to  come, 

In  yours  arid  my  discharge.16 

Seb.  What  stuff  is  this  !  —  How  say  you  1 

'Tis  true,  my  brother's  daughter's  queen  of  Tunis ; 
So  is  she  heir  of  Naples ;  'twixt  which  regions 
There  is  some  space. 

Ant.  A  space  whose  every  cubit 

Seems  to  cry  out,   "  How  shall  that  Claribel 
Measure  us  back  to  Naples  7  "  —  Keep  in  Tunis, 
And  let  Sebastian  wake  !  —  Say,  this  were  death 
That  now    hath  seiz'd  them ;   why  they  were   no 

worse 

Than  now  they  are  :  There  be,  that  can  rule  Naples 
As  well  as  he  that  sleeps ;  lords,  that  can  prate 
As  amply,  and  unnecessarily, 
As  this  Gonzalo  ;  I  myself  could  make 
A  chough  17  of  as  deep  chat.      O,  that  you  bore 
The  mind  that  I  do !  what  a  sleep  were  tliis 
For  your  advancement !    Do  you  understand  me  ? 

Scb.    Methinks,  I  do. 

Ant.  And  how  does  your  content 

Tender  your  own  good  fortune  1 

15  i.  e.  by  their  being  cast  ashore  again.  H. 

16  This  passage  has  given  commentators  a  fine  opportunity  of 
showing  their  superiority  to   the  Poet  in  the  knowledge  of  geog- 
raphy.    But,  besides  that  in  Shakespeare's  time  a  voyage  from 
Milan  to  Tunis  was  not  so  easy  as  it  has  been  since,  could  they 
not  see  that  he  purposely  makes  Antonio  exaggerate  the  distance, 
to  persuade  Sebastian  into  his  plans  ?     So  that   in  showing  theii 
knowledge  of  what  the  Poet  did  not  aim  at,  they  but  showed  then 
ignorance  of  his  proper  business.     As  usual.  H. 

17  A  chough  is  a  bird  of  the  jackdaw  kind. 


S4  THE    TEMPEST.  ACT  II 

Seb  I  remember, 

You  did  supplant  your  brother  Prospero. 

Ant.  True : 

And  look  how  well  my  garments  sit  upon  me  ; 
Much  feater  than  before :  My  brother's  servants 
Were  then  my  fellows,  now  they  are  my  meu. 

Seb.    But,  for  your  conscience  — 

Ant.    Ay,  sir ;  where  lies  that  ?  if  it  were  a  kybe 
Twould  put  me  to  my  slipper ;  but  I  feel  not 
This  deity  in  my  bosom  :  twenty  consciences, 
That  stand  'twixt  me  and  Milan,  candied  be  they, 
And  melt,  ere  they  molest !  Here  lies  your  brother, 
No  better  than  the  earth  he  lies  upon, 
If  he  were  that  which  now  he's  like,  that's  dead ; 
Whom   I,  with   this   obedient   steel,   three   inches 

of  it, 

Can  lay  to  bed  for  ever  :  whiles  you,  doing  thus, 
To  the  perpetual  wink  for  aye  might  put 
This  ancient  morsel,  this  sir  Prudence,  who 
Should  not  upbraid  our  course.     For  all  the  rest, 
They'll  take  suggestion,"  as  a  cat  laps  milk ; 
They'll  tell  the  clock  to  any  business  that 
We  say  befits  the  hour. 

Seb.  Thy  case,  dear  friend, 

Shall  be  my  precedent  •  as  thou  got'st  Milan, 
I'll  come  by  Naples.    Draw  thy  sword  :  one  stroke 
Shall  free  thee  from  the  tribute  which  thou  pay'st ; 
And  I  the  king  shall  love  thee. 

Ant.  Draw  together 

And  when  I  rear  my  hand,  do  you  the  like, 
To  fall  it  on  Gonzalo. 

Seb.  O  !  but  one  word. 

[They  converse  apart, 

18  Suggestion  is  frequently  used  in  the  sense  of  temptation,  or 
teduc'ion,  by  Shakespeare  and  his  contemporaries. 


8C.  I.  THE     TEMPEST.  55 

Music.     Re-enter  ARIEL,  invisible 
Ari.     My   master  through   his  art   foresees   the 

danger 

That  you,  his  friend,  are  in ;  and  sends  me  forth 
(For  else  liis  project  dies,)  to  keep  thee  living. 

[Sings  in  GONZAI.O'S  ear 

While  you  here  do  snoring  lie, 
Open-ey'd  conspiracy 

His  time  doth  take: 
If  of  life  you  keep  a  care, 
Shake  off  slumber,  and  beware 

Awake !  awake ! 

Ant.    Then  let  us  both  be  sudden. 

Gon.    Now,  good  angels,  preserve  the  king ! 

[They  wake- 

Alon.    Why,  how  now,  ho !    awake !    Why  are 

you  drawn  ? 
Wherefore  this  ghastly  looking? 

Gon.  What's  the  matter  ? 

Seb.     Whiles  we  stood  here  securing  your  repose. 
Even  now,  we  heard  a  hollow  burst  of  bellowing 
Like  bulls,  or  rather  lions :  did  it  not  wake  you  ? 
It  struck  mine  ear  most  terribly. 

Alon.  I  heard  nothing. 

Ant.     O  !  'twas  a  din  to  fright  a  monster's  ear ; 
To  make  an  earthquake :  sure  it  was  the  roar 
Of  a  whole  herd  of  lions. 

A  Ion.  Heard  you  this,  Gonzalo  1 

Gon.  Upon  mine  honour,  sir,  I  heard  a  humming, 
And  that  a  strange  one  too,  which  did  awake  me : 
I  shak'd  you,  sir   and  cried ;  as  mine  eyes  open'd. 

*•  Them  evidently  refers  to  Gonzalo  and  the  king,  not  to 
*  projects,"  as  the  Chiswick  edition  has  it,  thus  corrupting  the 
laxt  Of  course  but  one  of  the  persons  referred  to  was  mean! 
in,  you,  hit  friend.  u 


56  THE     TEMPEST.  ACT    11 

I  saw  their  weapons  drawn  :  —  There  was  a  noise. 
That's  verity :  'tis  best  we  stand  upon  our  guard, 
Or  that  we  quit  this  place  :  Let's  draw  our  weapons 

Alan.    Lead   off   this   ground;  and   let's   make 

further  search 
For  my  poor  son. 

Gon.  Heavens  keep  him  from  these  beasts ! 

For  he  is,  sure,  i'  the  island. 

Aim.  Lead  away. 

Ari.     [Aside.]    Prospero,   my   lord,  shall   know 

what  I  have  done  : 
So,  king,  go  safely  on  to  seek  thy  son.        [Exeunt 

SCENE    n.     Another  part  of  the  Island. 

Enter  CALIBAN,  with  a  burden  of  wood, 

A  noise  of  Thunder  heard. 

CaL     All  the  infections  that  the  sun  sucks  up 
From  bogs,  fens,  flats,  on  Prosper  fall,  and  make  him 
By  inch-meal  a  disease  !     His  spirits  hear  me, 
And  yet  I  needs  must  curse.    But  they'll  nor  pinch, 
Fright  me  with  urchin-shows,  pitch  me  i'  the  mire, 
Nor  lead  me,  like  a  fire-brand,  in  the  dark 
Out  of  my  way,  unless  he  bid  them ;  but 
For  every  trifle  are  they  set  upon  me : 
Sometime  like  apes,  that  moe '  and  chatter  at  me, 
And  after,  bite  me ;  then  like  hedge-hogs,  which 
Lie  tumbling  in  my  bare-foot  way,  and  mount 
Their  pricks 2  at  my  foot-fall ;  sometime  am  I 
All  wound  with  adders,  who,  with  cloven  tongues, 
Do  hiss  me  into  madness  :  —  Lo,  now  !  lo  ! 

1  To  mat  is  to  make  mouths.  "  To  make  a  moe  like  an  ape. 
Distorquere  os." —  Baret.  Sometimes  spelt  morn;  as  in  Nash'g 
'  Pierce  Penniless  :  "  "  Nobody  at  home  but  an  ape  that  sat  in 
the  porch,  and  made  mops  and  mows  at  him."  H. 

*   Prick*  is  the  ancient  word  for  prickle* 


SC.  II.  THK    TEMPEST.  57 

Enter  TRINCULO. 

Here  comes  a  spirit  of  his ;  and  to  torment  me, 
For  bringing  wood  in  slowly  :  I'll  fall  flat ; 
Perchance  he  will  not  mind  me. 

Trin.  Here's  neither  bush  nor  shrub,  to  bear  off 
any  weather  at  all,  and  another  storm  brewing ;  I 
hear  it  sing  i'  the  wind :  yond'  same  black  cloud, 
yond'  huge  one,  looks  like  a  foul  bumbard  J  that 
would  shed  his  liquor.  If  it  should  thunder,  as  it 
did  before,  I  know  not  where  to  hide  my  head: 
yond'  same  cloud  cannot  choose  but  fall  by  pailfuls. 
—  What  have  we  here  ?  a  man  or  a  fish  ?  Dead  or 
alive  1  A  fish  :  he  smells  like  a  fish ;  a  very  ancient 
and  fish-like  smell :  a  kind  of,  not  of  the  newest, 
Poor-John.  A  strange  fish !  Were  I  in  England 
now,  (as  once  I  was,)  and  had  but  this  fish  painted, 
not  a  holiday  fool  there  but  would  give  a  piece  of 
silver  :  there  would  this  monster  make  a  man ;  *  any 
strange  beast  there  makes  a  man :  when  they  will 
not  give  a  doit  to  relieve  a  lame  beggar,  they  will 
lay  out  ten  to  see  a  dead  Indian.  Legg'd  like  a 
man  !  and  his  fins  like  arms  !  Warm,  o'  my  troth  ! 
I  do  now  let  loose  my  opinion,  hold  it  no  longer ; 
this  is  no  fish  but  an  islander,  that  hath  lately  suf- 
fered by  a  thunderbolt.  [  Thunder.]  Alas  !  the  storm 
is  come  again :  my  best  way  is  to  creep  under  his 
gaberdine ; 5  there  is  no  other  shelter  hereabout . 
Misery  acquaints  a  man  with  strange  bed-fellows. 

*  A  bumbard  is  a  black  jack  of  leather,  to  hold  beer,  dz/c. 

4  i.  e.  make  a  man's  fortune.  Thus  in  A  Midsummer-Night'g 
ream  :  "  We  are  all  made  men ; "  and  in  the  old  comedy  of  Ram 
Alley  :  «  She's  a  wench  was  born  to  make  us  alL" 

4  A  gaberdine  was  a  coarse  outer  garment.  "  A  shepherd'i 
pelt,  frock,  or  gaberdine,  such  a  coarse  long  jacket  as  our  porten 
wear  over  the  rest  of  their  garments,"  says  Cotgrave.  "  A  kind 
of  rough  cassock  or  frock  like  an  Irish  mantle,"  says  Philips 


58  THE    TEMPEST.  ACT  II 

I  will  here  shroud,  till  the  dregs  of  the  storm  be 
past. 

Enter  STEPHANO,  singing;  a  bottle  in  his  hand. 

Ste.    I  shall  no  more  to  sea,  to  sea, 
Here  shall  I  die  ashore :  — 

This  is  a  very  scurvy  tune  to  sing  at  a  man's  funeral 
Well,  here's  my  comfort.  [Drinks 

The  master,  the  swabber,  the  boatswain,  and  I, 

The  gunner,  and  his  mate, 
Lov'd  Mall,  Meg,  and  Marian,  and  Margery, 

But  none  of  us  car'd  for  Kate : 
For  she  had  a  tongue  with  a  tang, 
Would  cry  to  a  sailor,  "  Go,  hang : " 
She  lov'd  not  the  savour  of  tar  nor  of  pitch, 
Yet  a  tailor  might  scratch  her  where'er  she  did  itch : 
Then  to  sea,  boys,  and  let  her  go  hang. 

This  is  a  scurvy  tune  too :  But  here's  my  comforu 

[Drinks. 

Cal.    Do  not  torment  me  :  O  ! 

Ste.  What's  the  matter  1  Have  we  devils  here  1 
Do  you  put  tricks  upon  us  with  savages,  and  men 
of  Inde  ?  Ha !  I  have  not  scap'd  drowning,  to  be 
afeard  now  of  your  four  legs  ;  for  it  hath  been  said, 
as  proper  a  man  as  ever  went  on  four  legs  cannot 
make  him  give  ground  :  and  it  shall  be  said  so  again, 
while  Stephano  breathes  at  nostrils. 

Cal.    The  spirit  torments  me  :  O  ! 

Ste.  This  is  some  monster  of  the  isle,  with  four 
legs  ;  who  hath  got,  as  I  take  it,  an  ague :  Where 
the  devil  should  he  learn  our  language  ?  I  will  give 
him  some  relief,  if  it  be  but  for  that :  If  I  can  recov- 
er him,  and  keep  liim  tame,  and  get  to  Naples  with 
him,  he's  a  present  for  any  emperor  that  ever  trod 
on  neat's-leather. 


SC.  II.  THE    TEMPEST.  59 

Cal.  Do  not  torment  me,  pr'ythee :  I'll  bring 
my  wood  home  faster. 

Ste.  He's  in  his  fit  now,  and  does  not  talk  after 
the  wisest.  He  shall  taste  of  my  bottle  :  if  he  have 
never  drunk  wine  afore,  it  will  go  near  to  remove 
his  fit :  6  If  I  can  recover  him,  and  keep  him  tame,  1 
will  not  take  too  much  for  him  : 7  he  shall  pay  for 
liim  that  hath  him,  and  that  soundly. 

Cal.  Thou  dost  me  yet  but  little  hurt ;  thou  wilt 
anon,  I  know  it  by  thy  trembling :  now  Prosper 
works  upon  thee. 

Ste.    Come  on  your  ways ;    open  your  mouth 
here  is  that  which  will  give  language  to  you,  cat ; 
open  your  mouth :  this  will  shake  your  shaking,  1 
can   tell  you,  and   that   soundly :   you  cannot   tell 
who's  your  friend  :  open  your  chaps  again. 

Trin.  I  should  know  that  voice  :  It  should  be  — 
but  he  is  drowri'd ;  and  these  are  devils :  O !  de 
fend  me  !  — 

Ste.  Four  legs,  and  two  voices  !  a  most  delicate 
monster.  His  forward  voice  now  is  to  speak  well 
of  his  friend ;  his  backward  voice  is  to  utter  foul 
speeches,  and  to  detract.  If  all  the  wine  in  my  hot 
tie  will  recover  him,  I  will  help  his  ague :  Come,  — 
Amen !  I  will  pour  some  in  thy  other  mouth. 

Trin.     Stephano ! 

Ste.  Doth  thy  other  mouth  call  me  ?  Mercy ! 
mercy !  This  is  a  devil,  and  no  monster :  I  will 
leave  him ;  I  have  no  long  spoon.8 

*  No  impertinent  hint  to  those  who  indulge  in  the  constant  use 
of  wine.     When  it  is  necessary  for  them  as  a  medicine,  it  pf 
duces  no  effect. 

7  A  piece  of  vulgar  irony,  meaning,   I'll  take  as  much  as  f 
can  get. 

8  Shakespeare    gives    his    characters    appropriate  language  i 
"  They  belch  forth  proverbs  in   their  drink,"  "  Good  liquor  will 
make   a   cat  tpeaJc,"  and  "  He  who  eats  with  the  devil  had  ueed 


60  THE    TEMPEST.  ACT  11 

Trin.  Stephano  !  —  If  thou  beest  Stepliano,  touch 
me,  and  speak  to  me  ;  for  I  am  Trinculo  :  —  be  rot 
afeard,  —  thy  good  friend  Trinculo. 

Ste.  If  thou  beest  Trinculo,  come  forth  ;  I'll  pull 
thee  by  the  lesser  legs :  If  any  be  Trinculo's  legs, 
these  are  they.  Thou  art  very  Trinculo,  indeed  ! 
How  cam'st  thou  to  be  the  siege  9  of  this  moon-calf] 
Can  he  vent  Trinculos  1 

Trin.  I  took  him  to  be  kill'd  with  a  thunder- 
stroke. —  But  art  thou  not  drown'd,  Stephano  1  I 
hope  now,  thou  art  not  drown'd.  Is  the  storm 
overblown  ?  I  laid  me  under  the  dead  moon-calf's  10 
gaberdine  for  fear  of  the  storm.  And  art  thou 
living,  Stephano  ?  O  Stephano  !  two  Neapolitan? 
'scap'd  ? 

Ste.  Pr'ythee,  do  not  turn  me  about :  my  stomach 
is  not  constant. 

Cal.  These  be  fine  things,  an  if  they  be  not  sprites. 
That's  a  brave  god,  and  bears  celestial  liquor :  I 
will  kneel  to  him. 

Ste.  How  didst  thou  'scape  ?  How  cam'st  thou 
hither  ?  swear  by  this  bottle,  how  thou  cam'st  liither. 
I  escap'd  upon  a  butt  of  sack,  which  the  sailors 
heaved  orer-board,  by  this  bottle  !  which  I  made  of 
the  bark  of  a  tree,  with  mine  own  hands,  since  I  was 
cast  a-shore. 

Cal.  I'll  swear,  upon  that  bottle,  to  be  thy  true 
subject ;  for  the  liquor  is  not  earthly. 

Ste.    Here  ;  swear  then  how  thou  escap'dst. 

Trin.  Swam  a-shore,  man,  like  a  duck :  I  can 
swim  like  a  duck,  I'll  be  sworn. 

of  a  long  spoon."  The  last  is  again  used  in  The  Comedy  of 
Errors,  Act  iv.  sc.  2. 

'  Siege  for  stool,  and  in  the  dirtiest  sense  of  the  word. 

10  The  best  account  of  the  moon-calf  may  be  found  in  Dray 
Uui'g  poem  with  that  title. 


8C.  II.  THE    TEMPEST.  Ok 

Ste.  Here,  kiss  the  book :  Though  tliou  canst 
swim  like  a  duck,  thou  art  made  like  a  goose. 

Trin.    O  Stephano  !  hast  any  more  of  this  7 

Ste.  The  whole  butt,  man  :  my  cellar  is  in  a  rock 
by  the  sea-side,  where  my  wine  is  hid.  How  now, 
moon-calf!  how  does  thine  ague  ? 

Cal.    Hast  thou  not  dropp'd  from  heaven  ? !1 

Ste.  Out  o'  the  moon,  I  do  assure  thee :  I  was 
the  man  i'  the  moon,  when  time  was. 

Cal.  1  have  seen  thee  in  her,  and  I  do  adore 
thee :  my  mistress  show'd  me  thee,  and  thy  dog, 
and  thy  bush. 

Ste.  Come,  swear  to  that ;  kiss  the  book :  I  will 
furnish  it  anon  with  new  contents :  swear. 

Trin.  By  this  good  light,  this  is  a  very  shallow 
monster  :  —  I  afeard  of  him  ?  —  a  very  weak  mon- 
ster :  —  The  man  i'  the  moon  !  —  a  most  poor 
credulous  monster  :  —  Well  drawn,  monster,  in  good 
sooth. 

Cal.  I'll  show  thee  every  fertile  inch  o'  the  island  ; 
and  I  will  kiss  thy  foot :  1  pr'ythee,  be  my  god. 

Trin.  By  this  light,  a  most  perfidious  and  drunken 
monster  !  when  his  god's  asleep,  he'll  rob  his  bottle. 

Cal.  I'll  kiss  thy  foot :  I'll  swear  myself  thy 
subject. 

Ste.    Come  on  then  ;  down,  and  swear. 

Trin.  I  shall  laugh  myself  to  death  at  this  pup- 
py-headed monster :  A  most  scurvy  monster  !  I 
could  find  in  my  heart  to  beat  him,  — 

Ste.    Come,  kiss. 

Trin.  — but  that  the  poor  monster's  ID  drink : 
An  abominable  monster ! 

11  The  Indians  of  the  Island  of  S.  Salvador  asked  by  signs 
whether  Columbus  and  his  companions  were  not  come  down  frum 
heaven. 


62  THE    TEMPEST.  ACT    II 

Ceil.    I'll  show  thee  the  best  springs ;  I'll  pluck 

thee  berries ; 

I'll  fish  for  thee,  and  get  thee  wood  enough. 
A  plague  upon  the  tyrant  that  I  serve  ! 
I'll  bear  him  no  more  sticks,  but  follow  thee, 
Thou  wondrous  man. 

Trin.  A  most  ridiculous  monster !  to  make  a 
wonder  of  a  poor  drunkard. 

Col.    I  pr'ythee,  let  me  bring  thee  where  crabs 

grow ; 

And  I  with  my  long  nails  will  dig  thee  pig-nuts ; 
Show  thee  a  jay's  nest,  and  instruct  thee  how 
To  snare  the  nimble  marmozet :  I'll  bring  thee 
To  clustering  filberds,  and  sometimes  I'll  get  thee 
Young  sea-mells  12   from  the  rock :  Wilt  thou  go 
with  me  ? 

Ste.  I  pr'ythee  now,  lead  the  way,  without  any 
more  talking.  —  Trinculo,  the  king  and  all  our  com- 
pany else  being  drown'd,  we  will  inherit  here.  — 
Here ;  bear  my  bottle.  Fellow  Trinculo,  we'll  fill 
him  by  and  by  again. 

Col.    [Sings  drunkerdy.]    Farewell,  master ;    farewell, 
farewell. 

Trin.    A  howling  monster ;  a  drunken  monster ! 

'*  The  original  has  scamels  in  this  place,  —  a  word  that  has  not 
heen  found  any  where  else ;  though  Holt,  writing  in  1749,  says 
limpets  are  called  scams  in  some  parts  of  England,  and  Mr.  Halli- 
well  says  he  has  the  authority  of  Mr.  Crofton  Croker  for  asserting, 
that  the  term  is  still  used  in  that  sense  in  Ireland.  Theobald 
altered  scamels  into  sea-mells ;  wherein  he  has  been  followed  by 
some  of  the  best  editions,  the  Chiswick  among  others.  The  sea- 
meil,  or  sea-mall,  is  a  species  of  gull,  which  builds  its  nest  in  the 
rock,  and  which,  when  young,  was  accounted  a  good  dish  at  the 
best  tables.  Dyce,  than  whom  we  have  no  better  authority  in 
such  matters,  thinks  staniel,  now  spelt  stannyel,  to  be  the  right 
word.  Stannyel  is  a  species  of  mountain  hawk,  and  the  word  is 
so  u.sed  in  Twelfth  Niffht,  Act  ii.  sc.  5.  H 


SC.  II.  THE    TEMPEST.  63 

Col,    No  more  dams  I'll  make  for  fish  ; 
Nor  fetch  in  firing 
At  requiring, 

Nor  scrape  trencher,13  nor  wash  dish : 
'Ban,  'Ban,  Ca  —  Caliban, 
Has  a  new  master  —  Get  a  new  man. 

Freedom,  hey-day !    hey-day,  freedom  !    freedom 

hey-day,  freedom ! 
Ste.    O  brave  monster  !   lead  the  way.     [Exeunt 


ACT   III. 

SCENE   I.     Before  PROSPERO'S  CelL 
Enter  FERDINAND,  bearing  a  log. 

Per.     There  be  some  sports  are  painful ;   and  * 

their  labour 

Delight  in  them  sets  off:8  some  kinds  of  baseness 
Are  nobly  undergone  ;  and  most  poor  matters 
Point  to  rich  ends.     This  my  mean  task 
Would  be  as  heavy  to  me,  as  odious ;  but 
The  mistress,  which  I  serve,  quickens  what's  dead. 
And  makes  my  labours  pleasures  :  O  !  she  is 
Ten  times  more  gentle  than  her  father's  crabbed  ; 
And  he's  compos'd  of  harshness.     I  must  remove 
Some  thousands  of  these  logs,  and  pile  them  up, 
Upon  a  sore  injunction :  My  sweet  mistress 

s  The  original  has  trenchering  here.  This  was  corrected  oy 
Dryden  and  Theobald,  yet  several  later  editions  hold  on  to  it. 
Mr.  Dyce  says :  "  That  trenchering  is  an  error  of  the  printer  (or 
transcriber),  occasioned  by  the  preceding  words  firing-  and  requiring, 

is  beyond  a  doubt." Caliban's  words,  get  a  new  man,  are  to 

be  understood  as  referring  to  Prospero.  H. 

1  And  in  the  sense  of  and  yet. 

1  Mo/liter  austerum  ».udio  fallente  laborem.  —  Hor.  Sat.  ii.  1.  & 
So,  in  Macbeth:  "  The  labour  we  delight  in  physics  pain." 


04  THE    TEMPEST.  ACT  lit 

Weeps  when   she   sees  me  work ;  and   says,  such 

baseness 

Had  never  like  executor.     I  forget : 
But  these  sweet  thoughts  do  even  refresh  my  labour, 
Most  busiest,  when  I  do  it. 

Enter  MIRANDA,  and  PROSPERO  at  a  distance. 

Mira.  Alas  !  now,  pray  you, 

Work  not  so  hard :   I  would,  the  lightning  had 
Burnt  up  those  logs,  that  you  are  enjoin'd  to  pile. 
Pray,  set  it  down,  and  rest  you :  when  this  burns, 
'Twill  weep  for  having  wearied  you :  My  father 
Is  hard  at  study ;  pray  now,  rest  yourself; 
He's  safe  for  these  three  hours. 

Per.  O,  most  dear  mistress  ! 

The  sun  will  set,  before  I  shall  discharge 
What  I  must  strive  to  do. 

Mira.  If  you'll  sit  down, 

I'll  bear  your  logs  the  while  :  Pray,  give  me  that ; 
I'll  carry  it  to  the  pile. 

Fer.  No,  precious  creature  : 

I'd  rather  crack  my  sinews,  break  my  back, 
Than  you  should  such  dishonour  undergo, 
While  I  sit  lazy  by. 

Mira.  It  would  become  me 

As  well  as  it  does  you :  and  I  should  do  it 
With  much  more  ease  ;  for  my  good  will  is  to  it, 
And  yours  it  is  against. 

Pro.  Poor  worm  !  thou  art  infected : 

This  visitation  shows  it. 

Mira.  You  look  wearily.. 

Fer.    No,    noble    mistress ;  'tis    fresh    morning 

with  me, 

When  you  are  by  at  night.     I  do  beseech  you, 
(Chiefly,  that  I  might  set  it  in  my  prayers,) 
What  is  your  name  ? 


SC.  I.  THE    TEMPEST.  65 

Mira.  Miranda  :  —  O  my  father  ! 

1  have  broke  your  hest 3  to  say  so. 

Fer.  Admir'd  Miranda  1 

Indeed  the  top  of  admiration ;  worth 
What's  dearest  to  the  world !  Full  many  a  lady 
I  have  ey'd  with  best  regard ;  and  many  a  time 
The  harmony  of  their  tongues  hath  into  bondage 
Brought  my  too  diligent  ear  :  for  several  virtues 
Have  I  lik'd  several  women ;  never  any 
With  so  full  soul,  but  some  defect  in  her 
Did  quarrel  with  the  noblest  grace  she  ow'd,4 
And  put  it  to  the  foil :  But  you,  O  you  ! 
So  perfect,  and  so  peerless,  are  created 
Of  every  creature's  best* 

Mira.  I  do  not  know 

One  of  my  sex ;  no  woman's  face  remember, 
Save,  from  my  glass,  mine  own ;  nor  have  I  seen 
More  that  I  may  call  men,  than  you,  good  friend, 
And  my  dear  father :  how  features  are  abroad, 
I  am  skill-less  of;  but,  by  my  modesty, 
(The  jewel  in  my  dower,)  I  would  not  wish 
Any  companion  in  the  world  but  you ; 
Nor  can  imagination  form  a  shape, 
Besides  yourself,  to  like  of :  But  I  prattle 
Something  too  wildly,  and  my  father's  precepts 
1  therein  do  forget. 

Fer.  I  am,  in  my  condition, 

A  prince,  Miranda ;  I  do  think,  a  king ; 
(I  would,  not  so  !)  and  would  no  more  endure 
This  wooden  slavery,  than  to  suffer 

*  Behest. 

4  Owned. 

5  In  the  first  book  of  Sidney's  Arcadia,  a  lover  says  of  his  mis- 
tress :  "  She  is  herself  of  best  things  the  collection."     In  the  third 
book  there  is  a  fable  which  may  have  been   in   Shakespeare'* 
mind. 


60  THE    TEMPEST.  ACT    HI 

The    flesh-fly    blow    my   mouth.  —  Hear  my  soul 

speak :  — 

The  very  instant  that  I  saw  you,  did 
My  heart  fly  to  your  service  ;  there  resides, 
To  make  me  slave  to  it ;  and,  for  your  sake, 
Am  I  this  patient  log-man. 

Mira.  Do  you  love  me  t 

Per.    O  heaven !  O  earth  !  bear  witness  to  this 

sound, 

And  crown  what  I  profess  with  kind  event, 
If  I  speak  true ;  if  hollowly,  invert 
What  best  is  boded  me  to  mischief !  I, 
Beyond  all  limit  of  what  else 6  i'  the  world, 
Do  love,  prize,  honour  you. 

Mira.  I  am  a  fool, 

To  weep  at  what  I  am  glad  of. 

Pro.  Fair  encountei 

Of  two  most  rare  affections  !    Heavens  rain  grace 
On  that  which  breeds  between  them  ! 

Fer.  Wherefore  weep  you  1 

Mira.    At  mine  unworthiness,  that  dare  not  offei 
What  I  desire  to  give ;  and  much  less  take 
What  I  shall  die  to  want :  But  this  is  trifling ; 
And  all  the  more  it  seeks  to  hide  itself, 
The  bigger  bulk  it  shows.    Hence,  bashful  cunning 
And  prompt  me,  plain  and  holy  innocence  ! 
[  am  your  wife,  if  you  will  marry  me ; 
If  not,  I'll  die  your  maid  :  to  be  your  fellow  7 
You  may  deny  me ;  but  I'll  be  your  servant, 
Whether  you  will  or  no. 

Fer.  My  mistress,  dearest, 

And  I  thus  humble  ever. 

Mira.  My  husband  then  1 

'    What  else,  for  wluttsoever  else. 
7  i.  e.  vour  convoanion. 


THE    TEMPEST.  67 

Per     Ay,  with  a  heart  as  willing 
As  bondage  e'er  of  freedom:  here's  my  hand. 

SGra.    And  mine,  with  my  heart  in't :    And  now 

farewell, 
Till  half  an  hour  hence. 

Fer.  A  thousand,  thousand  ! 8 

[Exeunt  FER.  and  MIR. 

Pro.    So  glad  of  this  as  they,  I  cannot  be, 
Who  are  surpris'd  with  all ;  but  my  rejoicing 
At  nothing  can  be  more.     I'll  to  my  book ; 
For  yet,  ere  supper  time,  must  I  perform 
Much  business  appertaining.  [Exit. 

SCENE    II.     Another  part  of  the  Island. 

Enter  STEPHANO  and  TRINCULO  ;  CALIBAN  follow 
ing  wth  a  bottle. 

Ste.  Tell  not  me :  —  when  the  butt  is  out,  we 
nill  drink  water ;  not  a  drop  before  :  therefore  bear 
ap,  and  board  'em  :  Servant-monster,  drink  to  me. 

Trin.  Servant-monster  ?  the  folly  of  this  island  ' 
They  say,  there's  but  five  upon  this  isle :  we  are 
three  of  them ;  if  the  other  two  be  brain'd  like  us, 
the  state  totters. 

Ste.  Drink,  servant-monster,  when  I  bid  thee: 
thy  eyes  are  almost  set  in  thy  head. 

Trin.  Where  should  they  be  set  else  ?  he  were 
a  brave  monster  indeed,  if  they  were  set  in  his  tail. 

Ste.  My  man-monster  hath  drown'd  his  tongue 
in  sack :  for  my  part,  the  sea  cannot  drown  me  :  1 
swam,  ere  I  could  recover  the  shore,  five-aod-thirty 
leagues,  off  and  on,  by  this  light.  —  Thou  shall  be 
uiy  lieutenant,  monster,  or  my  standard.1 

*  i.  e.  a  thousand,  thousand  times  farewell 
1   i.  e.  ensign. 


Of*  THE    TEMPEST.  ACT    11- 

Trin.  Yoar  lieutenant,  if  you  list ;  he's  no  standard. 

Ste.  We'll  not  run,  monsieur  monster. 

Trin.  Nor  go  neither  :  but  you'll  lie  like  dogs, 
and  yet  say  nothing  neither. 

Ste.  Moon-calf,  speak  once  in  thy  life,  if  thou 
heest  a  good  moon-calf. 

Col.  How  does  thy  honour  1  Let  me  lick  thy 
shoe  :  I'll  not  serve  him,  he  is  not  valiant. 

Trin.  Thou  liest,  most  ignorant  monster  :  I  am 
in  case  to  justle  a  constable  :  Why,  thou  debosh'd s 
fish  thou,  was  there  ever  man  a  coward,  that  hath 
drunk  so  much  sack  as  I  to-day  1  Wilt  thou  tell  a 
monstrous  lie,  being  but  half  a  fish,  and  half  a 
monster  ? 

Cal.  Lo,  how  he  mocks  me  !  wilt  thou  let  him, 
my  lord? 

Trin.  Lord,  quoth  he  !  —  that  a  monster  should 
be  such  a  natural ! 

Cal.    Lo,  lo,  again !  bite  him  to  death,  I  pr'ythee 

Ste.  Trinculo,  keep  a  good  tongue  in  your  head : 
if  you  prove  a  mutineer,  the  next  tree —  The  poor 
monster's  my  subject,  and  he  shall  not  suffer  in- 
dignity. 

Cai  I  thank  my  noble  lord.  Wilt  thou  be  pleas'd 
to  hearken  once  again  to  the  suit  I  made  thee  ? 

Ste.  Marry, will  I:  kneel,  and  repeat  it:  I  will 
stand,  and  so  shall  Trinculo. 

Enter  ARIEL,  invisibk. 

Cal.  As  I  told  thee  before,  I  am  subject  to  a 
tyrant ;  a  sorcerer,  that  by  his  cunning  hath  cheated 
me  of  the  island. 

*  Deboshed  is  the  old  orthography  of  debauched ;  following 
the  sound  of  the  French  original.  In  altering  the  spelling  we 
have  departed  from  the  proper  pronunciation  of  the  win* 


SC.  II.  THE    TEMPEST.  69 

Ari.    Thou  liest. 

Cal.  Thou  liest,  thou  jesting  monkey,  thou  ! 
I  would,  my  valiant  master  would  destroy  thee : 
I  do  not  lie. 

Ste.  Trinculo,  if  you  trouble  him  any  more  in 
his  tule,  by  this  hand,  I  will  supplant  some  of  your 
teeth. 

Trin.     Why,  I  said  nothing. 

Ste.  Mum  then,  and  110  more. —  [To CAL.]  Pru 
ceed. 

CaL    I  say,  by  sorcery  he  got  this  isle ; 
From  me  he  got  it :    If  thy  greatness  will 
Revenge  it  on  him,  —  for,  I  know,  thou  dar'st ; 
But  this  thing  dare  not,  — 

Ste.    That's  most  certain. 

Cal.    —  thou  shalt  be  lord  of  it,  and  I'll  serve  thee. 

Ste.  How  now  shall  this  be  compass'd  1  Canst 
thou  bring  me  to  the  party  1 

Cal.    Yea,  yea,  my  lord:    I'll  yield  him   thee 

asleep, 
Where  thou  mayst  knock  a  nail  into  his  head. 

Ari.    Thou  liest ;  thou  canst  not. 

Cal.    What  a  pied   ninny's  this !  3     Thou  scurvy 

patch !  — 

I  do  beseech  thy  greatness,  give  him  blows, 
And  take  his  bottle  from  him  :  when  that's  gone, 
He  shall  drink  nought  but  brine ;  for  I'll  not  show  him 
Where  the  quick  freshes  4  are. 

Ste.  Trinculo,  run  into  no  further  danger :  inter- 
rupt the  monster  one  word  further,  and,  by  this  hand, 
I'll  turn  my  mercy  out  of  doors,  and  make  a  stock 
fish  of  thee. 

8  He  calls  him  a   pied   ninny,  alluding  to  Trinculo's  motley 
dress :  he  was  a  licensed  fool  or  jester. 
*   Quick  freshes  are  living  springs. 


70  THE    TEMPEST  ACT    I1L 

Trin.  Why,  what  did  1 1  I  did  nothing :  I'll  go 
further  off. 

Ste.    Didst  thou  not  say,  he  lied  ? 

An.    Thou  liest. 

&te.  Do  I  so  7  take  thou  that.  [Strikes  him.]  As 
you  like  this,  give  me  the  lie  another  time. 

Trin.  I  did  not  give  the  lie :  —  Out  o'  your  wits 
and  hearing  too  ?  —  A  pox  o'  your  bottle !  this  can 
sack  and  drinking  do.  —  A  murrain  on  your  mon- 
ster, and  the  devil  take  your  fingers ! 

Col.    Ha,  ha,  ha! 

Ste.  Now,  forward  with  your  tale.  Pr'ythee 
stand  further  off. 

CaL  Beat  him  enough  .  after  a  little  time,  I'll 
beat  him  too. 

Ste.    Stand  further.  —  Come,  proceed. 

Col.    Why,  ns  I  told  thee,  'tis  a  custom  with  him 
['the  afternoon  to  sleep:  there  thou  mayst  brain  him, 
Having  first  seiz'd  his  books ;  or  with  a  log 
Batter  his  skull,  or  paunch  him  with  a  stake, 
Or  cut  his  wezand 5  with  thy  knife.    Remember, 
First  to  possess  his  books;  for  without  them 
He's  but  a  sot,6  as  I  am,  nor  hath  not 
One  spirit  to  command :  they  all  do  hate  him, 
As  rootedly  as  I :  Burn  but  his  books. 
He  has  brave  utensils,  (for  so  he  calls  them,) 
Which,  when  he  has  a  house,  he'll  deck  withal : 
And  that  most  deeply  to  consider,  is 
The  beauty  of  his  daughter ;  he  himself 
CaLs  her  a  nonpareil :  I  never  saw  a  woman, 
But  only  Sycorax  my  dam,  and  she ; 
But  she  as  far  surpasseth  Sycorax, 
As  great'st  does  least. 

Ste.  Is  it  so  brave  a  lass  1 

5  i.  e.  throat  or  windpipe. 

•  Sot  here  means  fool ;  from  the  French. 


1C.  II.  THE    TEMPEST.  71 

CaL    Ay,  lord ;    she   will    become   thy   bed,   1 

warrant, 
And  bring  thee  forth  brave  brood. 

Ste.  Monster,  I  will  kill  tnis  man  :  his  daughter 
and  I  will  be  king  and  queen ;  (save  our  graces  !  ) 
and  Trinculo  and  thyself  shall  be  viceroys :  —  Dost 
thou  like  the  plot,  Trinculo  1 

Trin.    Excellent. 

Ste.  Give  me  thy  hand ;  I  am  sorry  I  beat  thee : 
but,-  while  thou  livest,  keep  a  good  tongue  in  thy 
head. 

Col.    Within  this  half  hour  will  he  be  asleep  : 
Wilt  thou  destroy  him  then  ? 

Ste.  Ay,  on  mine  honour. 

Ari.   This  will  I  tell  my  master. 

Col.  Thou  mak'st  me  merry :  I  am  full  of  pleasure. 
Let  us  be  jocund :  Will  you  troll  the  catch 
You  taught  me  but  while-ere  ? 

Ste.  At  thy  request,  monster,  I  will  do  reason, 
any  reason :  Come  on,  Trinculo,  let  us  sing.  [Sings* 

Flout  'em,  and  skout  'em ;  and  skout  'em,  and  flout  'em; 
Thought  is  free. 

Cal    That's  not  the  tune. 

[ARIEL  plays  the  tune  on  a  tabor  and  pipe, 

Ste.    What  is  this  same  ? 

Trin.  This  is  the  tune  of  our  catch,  play'd  by 
the  picture  of  Nobody.7 

Ste.  If  thou  beest  a  man,  show  thyself  in  thy 
likeness :  if  thou  beest  a  devil,  take't  as  thou  list. 

Trin.     O,  forgive  me  my  sins ! 

Ste.  He  that  dies,  pays  all  debts :  I  defy  thee :  — 
Mercy  upon  us! 

7  The  picture  of  Nobody  was  a  common  sign,  and  consisted  of 
a  nead  upon  two  legs,  with  arms.  There  was  also  a  wood-cut 
prefixed  to  an  old  play  of  Nobody  and  Somebody,  which  repre 
««nted  this  personage.  H, 


72  THE    TEMPEST.  ACT   III. 

CaL     Art  thou  afeard  ? 

Ste.     No,  monster,  not  I. 

Col.     Be  not  afeard ;  the  isle  is  full  of  noises, 
Sounds,  and  sweet  airs,  that  give  delight,  and  hurt  not. 
Sometimes  a  thousand  twangling  instruments 
Will  hum  about  mine  ears ;  and  sometimes  voices, 
That,  if  I  then  had  wak'd  after  long  sleep, 
Will  make  me  sleep  again :  and  then,  in  dreaming, 
The  clouds,  methought,  would  open,  aud  show  riches 
Ready  to  drop  upon  me ;  that,  when  I  wak'd, 
I  cry'd  to  dream  again. 

Ste.  This  will  prove  a  brave  kingdom  to  me, 
Where  I  shall  have  my  music  for  nothing. 

Gal.    When  Prospero  is  destroy'd. 

Ste.  That  shall  be  by  and  by :  I  remember  the  story. 

Trin.  The  sound  is  going  away :  let's  follow  it, 
and  after  do  our  work. 

Ste.  Lead,  monster ;  we'll  follow.  —  I  would  I 
could  see  this  laborer  : 8  he  lays  it  on. 

Trin.  Wilt  come  ?  I'll  follow,  Stephano.  [Exeunt. 

SCENE    III.     Another  part  of  the  Island. 

Enter  ALONZO,  SEBASTIAN,  ANTONIO,  GONZALO, 
ADRIAN,  FRANCISCO,  and  others. 

G<m-    By'r  lakin,1  I  can  go  no  further,  sir; 
My  old  bones  ache :  here's  a  maze  trod,  indeed, 

8  "  You  shall  heare  in  the  ayre  the  sound  of  tabers  and  other 
instruments,  to  put  the  travellers  in  feare,  by  evill  spirites  that 
makes  these  soundes,  and  also  do  call  diverse  of  the  travellers  by 
their  names."  Travels  of  Marcus  Paulus,  by  John  Frampton,  4to. 
1579.  To  some  of  these  circumstances  Milton  also  alludes  : 

"  calling  shapes,  and  beckoning  shadows  dire  ; 
And  aery  tongues  that  syllable  men's  names 
On  sands,  and  shores,  and  desert  wildernesses." 

1  By'r  lakin  is  a  contraction  of  By  our  ladykin,  the  diminu 
live  of  mur  lin/v 


SC.  1H.  THE    TEMPEST.  78 

Through   forth-rights,   and   meanders !  *    by   your 

patience, 
I  needs  must  rest  me. 

Alan.  Old  lord,  I  cannot  blame  thee, 

Who  am  myself  attach'd  with  weariness, 
To  the  dulling  of  my  spirits  :  sit  down,  and  rest. 
Even  here  I  will  put  oft'  my  hope,  and  keep  it 
No  longer  for  my  flatterer  :   he  is  drown'd, 
Whom  thus  we  stray  to  find ;  and  the  sea  mocks 
Our  frustrate  search  on  land :  Well,  let  him  go, 

Ant.     [Aside  to  SEB.]    I  am  right  glad  that  he's 

so  out  of  hope. 

Do  not,  for  one  repulse,  forego  the  purpose 
That  you  resolv'd  to  effect. 

Seb.  The  next  advantage 

Will  we  take  throughly. 

Ant.  Let  it  be  to-night : 

For,  now  they  are  oppress'd  with  travel,  they 
Will  not,  nor  cannot,  use  such  vigilance, 
As  when  they  are  fresh. 

Seb.  I  say,  to-night :  no  more. 

Solemn  and  strange  music ;  and  PROSPERO  above, 
invisible.  Enter  several  strange  Shapes,  bringing 
in  a  banquet :  they  dance  about  it  with  gentle  ac- 
tions of  salutation ;  and  inviting  the  King,  fyc.  te 
eat,  they  depart. 

Alan.    What  harmony  is  this  ?  my  good  friends, 

hark! 

Gun.    Marvellous  sweet  music  ! 
Alan.    Give  us  kind  keepers,  heavens !    What 

were  these  ? 

*  Forth-rigJits  means  straight  lines  5  meanders,  crooked  ones 


74  THE    TEMPEST.  ACT  JIJ 

Seb.    A  living  drollery : 3  Now  I  will  believe 
That  there  are  unicorns  ;  that  in  Arabia 
There  is  one  tree,  the  phoenix'  throne  ; 4  one  phoenix 
At  this  hour  reigning  there. 

Ant.  I'll  believe  both  j 

And  what  does  else  want  credit,  come  to  me, 
And  I'll  be  sworn  'tis  true  :  Travellers  ne'er  did  he, 
Though  fools  at  home  condemn  them. 

Gon.  If  in  Naples 

I  should  report  this  now,  would  they  believe  me  1 
If  I  should  say  I  saw  such  islanders, 
(For,  certes,8  these  are  people  of  the  island,) 
Who,  though  they  are  of  monstrous  shape,  yet  note, 
Their  manners  are  more  gentle,  kind,  than  of 
Our  human  generation  you  shall  find 
Many,  nay,  almost  any. 

Pro.  [Aside.]      Honest  lord, 

Thou  hast  said  well ;  for  some  of  you  there  presem 
Are  worse  than  devils. 

Alon.  I  cannot  too  much  muse,6 

Such   shapes,   such   gesture,  and  such   sound,  ex- 
pressing 

(Although  they  want  the  use  of  tongue)  a  kind 
Of  excellent  dumb  discourse. 

Pro.  [Aside.]    Praise  in  departing.7 

*  Shows,  called  Drolleries,  were  in   Shakespeare's  time  per- 
formed by  puppets  only.     From  these  our  modern  drolls  exhibited 
at  fairs,  &.c.  took  their  name.     "  A  living  drollery  "  is  therefore  & 
drollery  not  by  wooden  but  by  living  personages. 

4  "  I  myself  have  heard  strange  things  of  this  kind  of  tree , 
namely,  in  regard  of  the  bird  Phoenix,  which  is  supposed  to  have 
taken  that  name  of  this  date  tree  (called  in  Greek  <j>oivi£) ;  for  it 
was  assured  unto  me,  that  the  said  bird  died  with  that  tree,  and 
revived  of  itselfe  as  the  tree  sprung  againe."  —  Holland's  Trans- 
lation of  Pliny,  B.  xiii.  C.  4. 

*  Certainly.  6  Wonder. 

7  " Praise  in  departing"  is  a  proverbial  phrase  signifying,  Do 
not  praise  your  entertainment  too  soon,  lest  you  should  have  rea- 
«wm  to  retract  your  commeir'atioii. 


8C.  ID.  THE    TEMPEST.  7fi 


They  vanish'd  strangely. 
Seb.  No  matter,  since 

They  have   left  their  viands  behind  ;  for  we  have 

stomachs.  — 
Will't  please  you  taste  of  what  is  here  1 

Aim.  Not  I. 

Gon.    Faith,  sir,  you  need  not  fear.  —  When  we 

were  boys, 

Who  would  believe  that  there  were  mountaineers 
Dew-lapp'd  like  bulls,  whose  throats  had  hanging 

at  them 

Wallets  of  flesh  1  or  that  there  were  such  men, 
Whose  heads  stood  in  their  breasts  ?  which  now  we 

find, 

Each  putter-out  on  five  for  one  8  will  bring  us 
Good  warrant  of. 

Alan.  I  will  stand  to  and  feed, 

Although  my  last  :  no  matter,  since  I  feel 
The  best  is  past.  —  Brother,  my  lord  the  duke, 
Stand  to,  and  do  as  we. 

8  A  sort  of  inverted  life-insurance  was  practised  by  travellers 
in  Shakespeare's  time.  Before  going-  abroad  they  put  out  a  sum 
of  money,  for  which  they  were  to  receive  two,  three,  four,  or  even 
five  times  the  amount  upon  their  return  ;  the  rate  being  according 
to  the  supposed  danger  of  the  expedition.  Of  course  the  sum 
put  out  fell  to  the  depositary,  in  case  the  putter-out  did  not  return. 
Davies  has  an  epigram  of  some  point  on  this  practice  : 

"  Lycus,  which  lately  is  to  Venice  gone, 
Shall,  if  he  do  return,  gain  three  for  one  ; 
But,  ten  to  one,  his  knowledge  and  his  wit 
Will  not  be  better'd  or  increas'd  a  whit." 

T«  men,  "  whose  heads  stood  in  their  breasts,"  were  probably 
the  same  that  Othello  speaks  of  : 

"  The  Anthropophagi,  and  men  whose  heads 
Do  grow  beneath  their  shoulders." 

Knight  suggests  that  the  report  of  "  mountaineers  dew-lapp'd 
like  bulls  "  may  have  sprung  from  some  remarkable  cases  of 
goitre,  seen  by  travellers,  but  not  understood  H. 


70  THE    TEMPEST.  ACT  III. 

Thunder  and  lightning.  Enter  ARIEL  like  a  harpy ; 
claps  his  icings  upon  the  table,  and,  by  a  quaint 
device,  the  banquet  vanishes. 

An.    You  are  three  men  of  sin,  whom  destiny 
(That  hath  to  instrument  this  lower  world, 
And  what  is  in't)  the  never-surfeited  sea 
Hath  caused  to  belch  up,  and  on  this  island 
Where  man  doth  not  inhabit ;  you  'mongst  men 
Being  most  unfit  to  live.     I  have  made  you  mad ; 

[Seeing  ALON.  SEB.  Sfc.  draw  their  swords. 
And  even  with  such  like  valour,  men  hang  and  drown 
Their  proper  selves.    You  fools  !   I  and  my  fellows 
Are  ministers  of  fate :  the  Elements, 
Of  whom  your  swords  are  temper'd,  may  as  well 
Wound  the  loud  winds,  or  with  bemock'd-at  stabs 
Kill  the  still-closing  waters,  as  diminish 
One  dowle  9  that's  in  my  plume :  my  fellow  ministers 
Are  like  invulnerable  :  If  you  could  hurt, 
Your  swords  are  now  too  massy  for  your  strengths, 
And  will  not  be  uplifted.     But)  remember, 
(For  that's  my  business  to  you,)  that  you  three 
From  Milan  did  supplant  good  Prospero ; 
Expos'd  unto  the  sea,  which  hath  requit  it, 
Him,  and  his  innocent  child :  for  which  foul  deed 
The  powers,  delaying,  not  forgetting,  have 
[ncens'd  the  seas  and  shores,  yea  all  the  creatures 
Against  your  peace :  Thee,  of  thy  son,  Alonzo, 
They  have  bereft ;  and  do  pronounce  by  me, 
Lingering  perdition  (worse  than  any  death 
Can  be  at  once)  shall  step  by  step  attend 
You,  and  your  ways ;  whose  wraths  to  guard  you  from 
(Which  here,  in  this  most  desolate  isle,  else  fall 

9  Bailey,  in  his  Dictionary,  says   that  dowle  is  a  feather,  or 
Bather  the  single  particles  of  the  down. 


SC.   III.  THE    TEMPEST.  77 

Upon  your  heads,)  is  nothing,  but  heart's  sorrow, 
And  a  clear  life  ensuing. 

He  vanisJies  in  thunder  :  then,  to  soft  music,  enter  the 
Shapes  again,  and  dance  with  mops  and  mowes,  and 
carry  out  tlie  table. 

Pro.    [Aside.']    Bravely  the  figure  of  this   harpy 

hast  thou 

Perform'd,  my  Ariel ;  a  grace  it  had,  devouring : 
Of  my  instruction  hast  thou  nothing  'bated, 
In  what  thou  hadst  to  say :  so,  with  good  life,10 
And  observation  strange,  my  meaner  ministers 
Their   several  kinds  have  done.    My  high  charms 

work, 

And  these,  mine  enemies,  are  all  knit  up 
In  their  distractions :  they  now  are  in  my  power ; 
And  in  these  fits  I  leave  them,  whilst  I  visit 
Young  Ferdinand,  (whom  they  suppose  is  drown'd,) 
And  his  and  my  lov'd  darling. 

[Exit  PROSPERoyrom  above. 

Gon.    I'  the  name  of  something  holy,  sir,  why 

stand  you 
In  this  strange  stare  1 

Aim.  O,  it  is  monstrous  !  monstrous  ! 

Methought,  the  billows  spoke,  and  told  me  of  it ; 
The  winds  did  sing  it  to  me ;  and  the  thunder, 
That  deep  and  dreadful  organ-pipe,  pronounc'd 
The  name  of  Prosper :  it  did  bass  my  trespass. 
Therefore  my  son  i'  the  ooze  is  bedded ;  and 
I'll  seek  him  deeper  than  e'er  plummet  sounded, 
And  with  him  there  lie  mudded.  [Exit, 

10  With  good  life,  i.  e.  with  full  bent  and  energy  of  mind 
Mr.  Henley  says  that  the  expression  is  still  in  use  in  the  west  of 
Eng  and. 


78  THE    TEMPEST.  ACT  IV 

Seb.  But  one  fiend  at  a  tune 

I'll  fight  their  legions  o'er. 

Ant.  I'll  be  thy  second. 

[Exeunt  SEB.  and  ANT. 
Gon.    All  three   of  them   are   desperate :  their 

great  guilt, 

Like  poison  given  to  work  a  great  time  after," 
Now  'gins  to  bite  the  spirits.     I  do  beseech  you, 
That  are  of  suppler  joints,  follow  them  swiftly, 
And  hinder  them  from  what  this  ecstasy  IS 
May  now  provoke  them  to. 

Adr.  Follow,  I  pray  you. 

[Exeunt 


ACT    IV. 

SCENE    I.     Before  PROSPERO'S  Cell. 
Enter  PROSPERO,  FERDINAND,  and  MIRANDA. 

Pro.     If  I  have  too  austerely  punish'd  you, 
Your  compensation  makes  amends;  for  I 
Have  given  you  here  a  thread  of  mine  own  life, 
Or  that  for  which  I  live ;  whom  once  again 
I  tender  to  thy  hand :  all  thy  vexations 
Were  but  my  trials  of  thy  love,  and  thou 

11  The  natives  of  Africa  have  been  supposed  to  possess  the 
secret  how  to  temper  poisons  with  such  art  as  not  to  operate  till 
several  years  after  they  were  administered.  Their  drugs  were 
then  as  certain  in  their  effect  as  subtle  in  their  preparation. 

11  Shakespeare  uses  ecstasy  for  any  temporary  alienation  of 
mind,  a  fit,  or  madness ;  as  in  Hamlet ; 

"  That  unmatch'd  form  and  feature  of  b'own  youth. 
Blasted  with  ecstasy  ;  " 

and  again  i 

« This  bodiless  creation  ecstaty 
Is  very  cunning  in."  B. 


6C.  I.  THE    TEMPEST  79 

Hast  strangely  stood  the  test :   here,  afore  Heaven, 

I  ratify  this  my  rich  gift.     O  Ferdinand  ! 

Do  not  smile  at  me,  that  I  boast  her  off, 

For  thou  shalt  find  she  will  outstrip  all  praise, 

And  make  it  halt  behind  her. 

Fer.  I  do  believe  it, 

Against  an  oracle. 

Pro.  Then,  as  my  gift,  and  thine  own  acquisition 
Worthily  purchas'd,  take  my  daughter :  But 
If  thou  dost  break  her  virgin  knot '  before 
All  sanctimonious  ceremonies  may 
With  full  and  holy  rite  be  minister'd, 
No  sweet  aspersion  *  shall  the  heavens  let  fall 
To  make  this  contract  grow ;  but  barren  hate, 
Sour-ey'd  disdain,  and  discord,  shall  bestrew 
The  union  of  your  bed  with  weeds  so  loathly, 
That  you  shall  hate  it  both :  therefore,  take  heed, 
As  Hymen's  lamps  shall  light  you. 

Fer.  As  I  hope 

For  quiet  days,  fair  issue,  and  long  life, 
With  such  love  as  'tis  now  ;  the  murkiest  den, 
The  most   opportune  place,  the   strong'st  sugges- 
tion* 

Our  worser  Genius  can,  shall  never  melt 
Mine  honour  into  lust;  to  take  away 
The  edge  of  that  day's  celebration, 
When  I  shall  think,  or  Phoebus'  steeds  are  founder'd, 
Or  night  kept  chain'd  below. 

Pro.  Fairly  spoke ; 


The  same  expression  occurs  in  Pericles.  Mr.  Henley  sayi 
that  it  is  a  manifest  allusion  to  the  zones  of  the  ancients,  which 
were  worn  as  guardians  ef  chastity  before  marriage. 

'  Aspersion  is  here  used  in  its  primitive  sense  of  sprinkling: 
at  present  it  is  used  in  its  figurative  sense  of  throwing  out  hfnU 
of  calumny  and  detraction 

Suggestion  nere  means  temptation-  or  wicked  prompting. 


80  THE    TEMPEST.  ACT  IV 

Sit  then,  and  talk  with  her ;  she  is  thine  own.  — 
What,  Ariel !  my  industrious  servant  Ariel ! 

Enter   ARIEL. 

An.  What  would  my  potent  master  ?  here  I  am 

Pro.  Thou  and  thy  meaner  fellows  your  last  ser- 
vice 

Did  worthily  perform ;  and  I  must  use  you 
In  such  another  trick  :     Go,  bring  the  rabble, 
O'er  whom  I  give  thee  power,  here,  to  this  place 
Incite  them  to  quick  motion ;  for  I  must 
Bestow  upon  the  eyes  of  this  young  couple 
Some  vanity 4  of  mine  art :  it  is  my  promise. 
And  they  expect  it  from  me. 

Ari.  Presently  ? 

Pro.    Ay,  with  a  twink. 

Ari.    Before  you  can  say,  "  Come,"  and  "  go,*' 
And  breathe  twice  ;  and  cry,  "  so,  so ;  " 
Each  one,  tripping  on  his  toe, 
Will  be  here  with  mop  and  mowe : 
Do  you  love  me,  master  1  no  ? 

Pro.  Dearly,  my  delicate  Ariel :  Do  not  approach, 
Till  thou  dost  hear  me  call. 

Ari.  Well ;  I  conceive.     [Exit 

Pro.    Look,  thou  be  true  :  do  not  give  dalliance 
Too  much  the  rein ;  the  strongest  oaths  are  straw 
To  the  fire  i'  the  blood :    Be  more  abstemious, 
Or  else,  good  night  your  vow ! 

Fer.  I  warrant  you,  sir  . 

The  white-cold  virgin  snow  upon  my  heart 
Abates  the  ardour  of  my  liver.8 

Pro.  Well.  — 

4  i.  e.  show  or  exhibition. 

•  The  liver  was  anciently  supposed  to  be  the  seat  of  the  pas 
nons  ;  hence  often  put  for  the  passions  themselves.  H 


SC.  I  THE    TEMPEST.  81 

Now  come,  ray  Ariel !  bring  a  corollary,* 
Rather  than  want  a  spirit :  appear,  and  pertly.  — 
No  tongue,  all  eyes  ;  be  silent.  [Soft  music. 

A  Masque.      Enter  IRIS. 

Iris.     Ceres,  most  bounteous  lady,  thy  rich  leas 
Of  wheat,  rye,  barley,  vetches,  oats,  and  peas ; 
Thy  turfy  mountains,  where  live  nibbling  sheep, 
And  flat  meads  thatch'd  with  stover,7  them  to  keep  ; 
Thy  banks  with  peonied  and  lilied  brims,8 
Which  spongy  April  at  thy  hest  betrims, 
To   make   cold   nymphs   chaste  crowns ;  and  thy 

broom  groves, 
Whose  shadow  the  dismissed  bachelor  loves, 

8  i.  e.  bring  more  than  enough ;  corollary  meaning  a  surplus 
number.  H. 

7  Stover  is  fodder  for  cattle,  as  hay,  straw,  and  such  like  ;  still 
used  thus  in  the  north  of  England.  H. 

8  The  original  has  "  pioned  and  twilled  brims  ; "  which  reading 
some  late  editors  have   retained,  taking  pioned  to  mean  dug,  a 
sense  in  which  it  is  used  by  Spenser,  and  twilled  to  mean  ridged, 
or  made  into  ridges,  a  sense  which  it  yet  bears  in  reference  to 
some  kinds  of  linen.     Knight  says  :  "  Any  one  who  has  seen  the 
operation  of  banking  and  ditching  in  early  spring,  so  essential  to 
the  proper  drainage  of  land,  must  recognize  the  propriety  of 
Shakespeare's  epithets."     Still  this  strikes  us  as  so  discordant  a 
note,  it  so  untunes  the  harmony  of  the  passage,  that  we  cannot 
but  think  the  original  reading  a  misprint  for  the  one  proposed  by 
Steevens  and  VVarton.     Milton,  whose   poetical   language  is  so 
much  formed  upon  Shakespeare's  as  often  to  afford  the  best  com- 
ment upon  him,  has  in  his  Arcades  the  line : 

"  By  sandy  Ladon's  lilied  banks  ; " 

which,  as  Warton  says,  is  "  an  authority  for  reading  lilied  instead 
of  twilled  in  a  verse  of  The  Tempest ; "  and  he  adds,  "  lilied  seems 
to  have  been  no  uncommon  epithet  for  the  banks  of  a  river." 
Henley  urges  in  behalf  of  the  old  reading,  that  pionies  and  lilies 
never  bloom  in  April ;  which  is  refuted  by  a  passage  in  Lord 
Bacon's  Essay  "Of  Gardens:"  "In  April  follow  the  double 
white  violet,  the  wall-flower,  the  stock-gilly-flower,  the  cowslip, 
flower-de-luces,  and  lilies  of  all  natures ;  rose-mary  flower?,  the 
tulip,  the  double  piony,  the  pale  daffodil,"  &,c.  Bui  the  tnair 


t*  THE    TEMPEST.  ACT  IV 

Being  luss-lorn  ; 9  thy  pole-clipt  vineyaid  ; 

And  thy  sea-marge,  steril,  and  rocky-hard, 

Where  thou  thyself  dost  air ;  —  the  queen  o'  the  sky 

Whose  watery  arch,  and  messenger,  am  I, 

Bids  thee  leave  these,  and  with  her  sovereign  grace, 

Here  on  this  grass-plot,  in  this  very  place. 

To  come  and  sport :     Her  peacocks  fly  amain  : 

Approach,  rich  Ceres,  her  to  entertain. 

Enter  CERES. 

Cer.    Hail,  many-colour'd  messenger,  that  ne'er 
Dost  disobey  the  wife  of  Jupiter; 
Who,  with  thy  saffron  wings  upon  my  flowers 
Diffusest  honey-drops,  refreshing  showers  ; 10 
And  with  each  end  of  thy  blue  bow  dost  crown 
My  bosky  "  acres,  and  my  unshrubb'd  down, 
Rich  scarf  to  my  proud  earth ; — why  hath  thy  queen 
Summon 'd  me  hither,  to  this  short-grass'd  green  1 

Iris.    A  contract  of  true  love  to  celebrate ; 
And  some  donation  freely  to  estate 
On  the  bless'd  lovers. 

objection  to  the  old  reading'  lies  in  the  words,  "  to  make  cold 
nymphs  chaste  crowns,"  which  apparently  refer  to  the  popular 
belief  touching  the  flowers  in  question.  Lyte,  in  his  Herbal,  says, 
"  One  kind  of  peonie  is  called  by  some,  maiden  or  virgin  peonie." 
And  Pliny  mentions  the  water-lily  as  a  preserver  of  chastity ; 
and  Edward  Fenton,  in  his  Secret  Wonders  of  Nature,  1569,  says, 
"  The  water-lily  mortifieth  altogether  the  appetite  of  sensuality, 
and  defends  from  unchaste  thoughts."  H. 

9  i.  e.  forsaken  by  his  lass.  Pole-clipt  vineyard  refers  to  vines 
that  clip,  clasp  the  poles  that  support  them.  H. 

13  Mr.  Douce  remarks  that  this  is  an  elegant  expansion  of  the 
following  lines  in  Phaer's  Virgil,  JEneid,  Lib.  iv. 

"  Dame  Rainbow  down  therefore  with  safron  wings  of  dropping 

Siiowres, 

Whose  face  a  thousand  sundry  hues  against  the  sun  devoures, 
From  heaven  descending  came." 

11  Bosky  acres  are  woody  acres,  fields  intersected  by  luxuriant 
hedge-rows  and  copses. 


»C.   I.  THE    TEMPEST.  83 

Ccr.  Tell  me,  heavenly  bow, 

If  Venus,  or  her  son,  as  thou  dost  know, 
Do  now  attend  the  queen  ?  since  they  did  plot 
The  means,  that  dusky  Dis  my  daughter  got. 
Her  and  her  blind  boy's  scandal'd  company 
1  have  forsworn. 

Iris.  Of  her  society 

Be  not  afraid  :  I  met  her  deity 
Cutting  the  clouds  towards  Paphos ;  and  her  son 
Dove-drawn  with  her :    Here  thought  they  to  have 

done 

Some  wanton  charm  upon  this  man  and  maid. 
Whose  vows  are,  that  no  bed-rite  shall  be  paid 
Till  Hymen's  torch  be  lighted ;  but  in  vain : 
Mars's  hot  minion  is  return 'd  again ; 
Her  waspish-headed  son  has  broke  his  arrows, 
Swears  he  will  shoot  no  more,  but  play  with  sparrows, 
And  be  a  boy  right  out. 

Ccr.  Highest  queen  of  state, 

Great  Juno  comes :  I  know  her  by  her  gait. 

Enter  JUNO. 

Juno.  How  does  my  bounteous  sister  ?  Go  with  me, 
To  bless  this  twain,  that  they  may  prosperous  be. 
And  honour'd  in  their  issue. 

Song. 

June.    Honour,  riches,  marriage-blessing, 
Long  continuance,  and  increasing. 
Hourly  joys  be  still  upon  you ! 
Juno  sings  her  blessings  on  you. 

Cer    Earth's  increase,  foison  plenty, 
Barns  and  garners  never  empty ; 
Vines,  with  clust'ring  branches  growing; 
Plants,  with  goodly  burden  bowing ; 


84  THE    TEMPEST.  ACT  FV 

Spring  come  to  you,  at  the  farthest. 
In  the  very  end  of  harvest ! 
Scarcity  and  want  shall  shun  you ; 
Ceres'  blessing  so  is  on  you. 

Fer.  This  is  a  most  majestic  vision,  and 
Harmonious  charmingly : I2  May  I  be  bold 
To  think  these  spirits  1 

Pro.  Spirits,  which  by  mine  art 

t  have  from  their  confines  call'd,  to  enact 
My  present  fancies. 

Fer.  Let  me  live  here  ever ; 

So  rare  a  wonder'd  l3  father,  and  a  wise, 
Makes  this  place  Paradise. 

[.TUNO  and  CERES  whisper,  and  send  IRIS  on 
employment. 

Pro.  Sweet  now,  silence : 

Juno  and  Ceres  whisper  seriously  ; 
There's  something  else  to  do :  hush,  and  be  mute, 
Or  else  our  spell  is  marr'd. 

Iris.    You  nymphs,  call'd  Naiads,  of  the  winding 

brooks, 

With  your  sedg'd  crowns,  and  ever  harmless  looks, 
Leave  your  crisp  u  channels,  and  on  tliis  green  land 
Answer  your  summons  :  Juno  does  command. 
Come,  temperate  nymphs,  and  help  to  celebrate 
A  contract  of  true  love ;  be  not  too  late. 

Enter  certain  Nymphs. 

You  sun-burn 'd  sicklemen,  of  August  weary, 
Come  lu'ther  from  the  furrow,  and  be  merry ; 

'*  i.  e.  charmingly  harmonious. 

13  i.  e.  a  father  able  to  produce  such  wondors. 

14  Crisp  channels ;  i.  e.  curled,  from  the  curl  raised  by  a  breeze 
on  the  surface  of  the  water.     So  in  1  K.  Hen.  IV.  Act  i.  sc.  3  •• 

"  hid  his  crisp  head  in  the  hollow  hank." 


oC.   I  THE     TEMPEST.  85 

Make  holiday :  your  rye-straw  hats  put  on, 
And  these  fresh  nymphs  encounter  every  one 
In  country  footing. 

Enter  certain  Reapers,  properly  habited:  they  join 
urith  tJie  Nymphs  in  a  graceful  dance;  towards 
the  end  whereof  PB.OSPERO  starts  suddenly,  and 
speaks  ;  after  which,  to  a  strange,  hollow,  and  con- 
fused noise,  they  heavily  vanish. 

Pro.   [Aside.']  I  had  forgot  that  foul  conspiracy 
Of  the  beast  Caliban,  and  his  confederates, 
Against  my  life ;  the  minute  of  their  plot 
Is  almost  come.  —  [To  ilie,  Spirits.]    Well  done  :  — 
avoid ;  —  no  more. 

Per.  This  is  strange :  your  father's  in  some  passion 
That  works  him  strongly. 

Mira.  Never  till  tliis  day, 

Saw  I  liim  touch'd  with  anger  so  distemper'd. 

Pro.     You  do  look,  my  son,  in  a  mov'd  sort, 
As  if  you  were  dismay'd:  be  cheerful,  sir. 
Our  revels  now  are  ended :     These  our  actors, 
As  I  foretold  you,  were  all  spirits,  and 
Are  melted  into  air,  into  thin  air : 
And,  like  the  baseless  fabric  of  this  vision, 
The  cloud-capp'd  towers,  the  gorgeous  palaces, 
The  solemn  temples,  the  great  globe  itself, 
Yea,  all  wliich  it  inherit,  shall  dissolve ; 
And,  like  this  insubstantial  pageant  faded," 
Leave  not  a  rack  behind.16     We  are  such  stuff 

'*  i.  e.  vanished,  from  the  Latin  vado.  The  ancient  English 
figeants  were  shows,  on  the  reception  of  princes  or  other  festive 
occasions ;  they  were  exhibited  on  stages  in  the  open  air. 

18  Rack,  according  to  Home  Tooke,  is  vapour,  from  reek.  It 
here  means,  apparently,  the  highest  aud  therefore  lightest  clouds- 
Lord  Bacon  says  :  "  The  winds  which  *-ave  the  clouds  above 
which  we  call  the  rack,  are  not  perceived  below,  pass  without 
noise."  8 


r*f  THE     TEMPEST.  ACT  IV 

As  dreams  are  made  on,  and  our  little  life 

Is  rounded  with  a  sleep.17  —  Sir,  £  am  vex'd : 

Bear  with  my  weakness  ;  my  old  brain  is  troubled  : 

Be  riot  disturb'd  with  my  infirmity. 

If  you  be  pleas'd,  retire  into  my  cell, 

And  there  repose  :  a  turn  or  two  I'll  walk, 

To  still  my  beating  mind. 

Far.     Mira.  We  wish  your  peace. 

[Exeunt 

Pro.     Come  with  a  thought :  —  I  thank  thee  :  — 
Ariel,  come  ! 

Enter  ARIEL. 

An.  Thy  thoughts  I  cleave  to :  What's  thy  pleasure1? 
Pro.  Spirit, 

We  must  prepare  to  meet  with  Caliban.18 

17  In  the  tragedy  of  Darius,  by  Lord  Sterline,  printed  in  1603, 
is  a  passage  that  has  something  of  the  same  train  of  thought  with 
Shakespeare : 

'<  And  when  the  eclipse  comes  of  our  glory's  light 
Then  what  avails  the  adoring  of  a  name  ? 
A  mere  illusion  made  to  mock  the  sight, 
Whose  best  was  but  the  shadow  of  a  dream. 
Let  greatness  of  her  glassy  sceptres  vaunt,  — 
Not  sceptres,  no,  but  reeds,  soon  bruis'd,  soon  broken ; 
And  let  this  worldly  pomp  our  wits  enchant, — 
All  fades,  and  scarcely  leaves  behind  a  token. 
Those  golden  palaces,  those  gorgeous  halls, 
With  furniture  superfluously  fair, 
Those  stately  courts,  those  sky-encountering  walls, 
Evanish  all,  like  vapours  in  the  air.'' 

It  is  evident  that  one  poet  wrote  somewhat  from  the  other,  and 
Shakespeare  was  doubtless  the  borrower  ;  it  being  far  more  credi- 
ble that  he  should  thus  glorify  what  he  took,  than  that  any  one 
could  thus  deflower  in  taking.  Besides,  The  Tempest  was  written 
after  1603.  H. 

18  To  meet  with  was  anciently  the  same  as  to  counteract,  01 
oppose.     So  in  Herbert'*  "  Country  Parson : "  "  He  knows  the 
temper  and  pulse  of  every  tne  in  his  house,  and  accordingly  eithet 
meets  with  their  vices,  or  advanceth  their  virtues."  H. 


SC.   1.  THE    TEMPEST.  87 

Ari.  Ay,  my  commander :  when  I  presented  Ceres, 
1  thought  to  have  told  thee  of  it ;  but  I  fear'd, 
Lest  I  might  anger  thee. 

Pro.    Say  again,  where  didst  thou  leave  these 
varlets  ? 

Ari.    I  told  you,  sir,  they   were    red-hot    with 

drinking; 

So  full  of  valour,  that  they  smote  the  air 
For  breathing  in  their  faces ;  beat  the  ground 
For  kissing  of  their  feet ;  yet  always  bending 
Towards  their  project :     Then  I  beat  my  tabor, 
At  wliich,  like  unback'd  colts,  they  prick'd  their  ears, 
Advanc'd  their  eye-lids,  lifted  up  their  noses, 
As  they  smelt  music  : 19  so  I  charm M  their  ears, 
That,  calf-like,  they  my  lowing  follow'd,  through 
Tooth'd  briers,  sharp  furzes,  pricking  gorse,  and 

thorns, 

Which  enter'd  their  frail  shins  :  at  last  I  left  them 
I'  the  filthy  mantled  pool  beyond  your  cell, 
There  dancing  up  to  the  chins,  that  the  foul  lake 
O'er-stunk  their  feet. 

Pro.  This  was  well  done,  my  bird  : 

Thy  shape  invisible  retain  thou  still : 
The  trumpery  in  my  house,  go,  bring  it  liither, 
For  stale 20  to  catch  these  thieves. 

Ari.  I  go,  I  go.      [Eril. 

Pro.  A  devil,  a  born  devil,  on  whose  nature 
Nurture  can  never  stick ;  on  whom  my  pains, 
Humanely  taken,  all,  all  lost,  quite  lost ; 
And  as  with  age  lus  body  uglier  grows, 

19  This,  we  are  told,  is  an  accurate  description  of  the  effect 
music  has  upon  colts.  "  On  first  hearing  even  a  trumpet,  instead 
of  being  terrified,  they  will  often  advance,  and  thrust  their  nose 
np  to  the  very  mouth"  (bell?)  "of  the  instrument,  while  it  a 
>>lown,  provided  this  be  done  with  some  consideration."  H. 

*°  Stiilf.  in  tie  art  of  fowling,  signified  a  bait  or  lure  to  decoy 
birds 


38  THE    TEMPEST.  ACT  IV 

So  his  mind  cankers  :  I  will  plague  them  all, 

Re-enter  ARIEL  louden  with  glistering  apparel,  fife 
Even  to  roaring :  —  Come,  hang  them  on  this  line 

PROSPERO  and  ARIEL  remain  invisible.    Enter  CALI- 
BAN, STEPHANO,  and  TRINCULO,  all  wet. 

CaL    Pray  you,  tread  softly,  that  the  blind  mole 

may  not 
Hear  a  foot  fall :  we  now  are  near  his  cell. 

Ste.  Monster,  your  fairy,  which,  you  say,  is  a 
harmless  fairy,  has  done  little  better  than  play'd  the 
Jack  with  us.21 

Trin.  Monster,  I  do  smell  all  horse-piss ;  at 
which  my  nose  is  in  great  indignation. 

Ste.  So  is  mine.  Do  you  hear,  monster  1  If  I 
should  take  a  displeasure  against  you,  look  you,  — 

Trin.     Thou  wert  but  a  lost  monster. 

CaL     Good  my  lord,  give  me  thy  favour  still : 
Be  patient,  for  the  prize  I'll  bring  thee  to 
Shall  hood-wink  this  mischance  :  therefore,  speak 

softly  ; 
All's  hush'd  as  midnight  yet. 

Trin.    Ay,  but  to  lose  our  bottles  in  the  pool,  — 

Ste.  There  is  not  only  disgrace  and  dishonour 
in  that,  monster,  but  an  infinite  loss. 

Trin.  That's  more  to  me  than  my  wetting  :  yet 
this  is  your  harmless  fairy,  monster. 

Ste.  I  will  fetch  off  my  bottle,  though  I  be  over 
ears  for  my  labour. 

Cal.  Pr'ythee, my  king, be  quiet:  Seest  thou here  1 
Tliis  is  the  mouth  of  the  cell :  no  noise,  and  enter 

81  To  play  the  Jack,  was  to  play  the  Knave ;  or  it  may  have 
been,  to  play  the  Jack  o'  lantern,  by  leading  them  astray.      H 


»C.  1.  THE    TEMPEST.  89 

Do  that  good  mischief,  which  may  make  tliis  island 
Thine  own  for  ever,  and  I,  thy  Caliban, 
For  aye  thy  foot-licker. 

Ste.  Give  me  thy  hand  :  I  do  begin  to  have 
bloody  thoughts. 

Trin.  O  king  Stephano  !  O  peer  !  "  O  worthy 
.Stephano  !  look,  what  a  wardrobe  here  is  for  thee  ! 

CaL    Let  it  alone,  thou  fool :  it  is  but  trash. 

Trin.  O,  ho,  monster !  we  know  what  belongs, 
to  a  frippery  :  *3 —  O  king  Stephano  ! 

Ste.  Put  off  that  gown,  Trinculo  :  by  this  hand, 
I'll  have  that  gown. 

Trin.    Thy  grace  shall  have  it. 

CaL    The  dropsy  drown  this  fool !  what  do  you 

mean, 

To  dote  thus  on  such  luggage  1   Let's  along,*4 
And  do  the  murder  first :  if  he  awake, 
From  toe  to  crown  he'll  fill  our  skins  with  pinches ; 
Make  us  strange  stuff. 

Ste.  Be  you  quiet,  monster.  —  Mistress  line,  is 
not  this  my  jerkin  ?  Now  is  the  jerkin  under  the 
line :  now,  jerkin,  you  are  like  to  lose  your  hair, 
and  prove  a  bald  jerkin. 

Trin.  Do,  do :  We  steal  by  line  and  level,  an't 
like  your  grace. 

Ste.  I  thank  thee  for  that  jest ;  here's  a  garment 
for't :  wit  shall  not  go  unrewarded,  while  I  am  king 
of  this  country  :  "  Steal  by  line  and  level,"  is  an  ex- 
cellent pass  of  pate ;  there's  another  garment  for't. 

Trin.  Monster,  come,  put  some  lime "  upon 
your  fingers,  and  away  with  the  rest. 

n  This  is  a  humourous  allusion  to  the  old  ballad  "  King  Stephen 
was  a  worthy  peer,"  of  which  lago  sings  a  verse  in  Othello. 
13  A  shop  for  the  sale  of  old  clothes.  —  Fripparie,  FR. 
84  The  old  copy  reads,  "  Let's  alone." 
16  i.  e.  bird-lime. 


90  THE    TEMPEST.  ACT  IV 

CaL  I  will  have  none  on't :  we  shall  lose  our  time 
And  all  be  turn'd  to  barnacles,26  or  to  apes 
With  foreheads  villainous  low. 

Ste.  Monster,  lay-to  your  fingers :  help  to  bear 
this  away,  where  my  hogshead  of  wine  is,  or  T'll 
turn  you  out  of  my  kingdom :  Go  to,  carry  this. 

Trin.  And  this. 

Ste.  Ay,  and  this. 

A  noise  of  hunters  heard.  Enter  divers  Spirits  in 
shape  of  hounds,  and  hunt  them  about ;  PROSPERO 
and  ARIEL  setting  them  on. 

Pro.    Hey,  Mountain,  hey! 

Ari.     Silver !  there  it  goes,  Silver  ! 

Pro.    Fury  !  Fury  !  there,  Tyrant,  there !  hark, 
hark  !      [CAL.  STE.  and  TRIN.  are  driven  out. 
(TO,  charge  my  goblins  that  they  grind  their  joints 
With  dry  convulsions ;  shorten  up  their  sinews 
With  aged  cramps ;  and  more  pinch-spotted  make 

them, 
Than  pard 2T  or  cat  o'  mountain. 

Ari.  Hark,  they  roar. 

Pro.  Let  them  be  hunted  soundly  :  At  tliis  hour 
Lie  at  my  mercy  all  mine  enemies : 
Shortly  shall  all  my  labours  end,  and  thou 
Shalt  have  the  air  at  freedom  :  for  a  little, 
Follow,  and  do  me  service.  [Exeunt. 

*  The  barnacle  is  a  kind  of  shell-fish,  Upas  anatifera,  which 
ancient  credulity  believed  to  produce  the  barnacle-goose.  Bishop 
Hall  refers  to  it  in  the  second  Satire  of  his  fourth  Book : 

"  That  Scottish  barnacle,  if  I  might  choose, 
That  of  a  worm  doth  wax  a  winged  goose." 

Caliban's  barnacle  is  the  clakis,  or  tree-goose. 
87  i.  e.  'eopard 


THE    TEMPEST.  ill 

ACT   V. 

SCENE    I.     Before  the  Cell  of  PROSPERO. 
Enter  PROSPERO  in  his  magic  robes,  and  ARIEL, 

Pro.  Now  does  ray  project  gather  to  a  head  : 
My  charms  crack  not ;  my  spirits  obey ;  and  time 
Goes  upright  with  his  carriage.     How's  the  day  ? 

Ari.  On  the  sixth  hour ;  at  which  time,  my  lord, 
You  said  our  work  should  cease. 

Pro.  I  did  say  so, 

When  first  I  rais'd  the  tempest.     Say,  my  spirit, 
How  fares  the  king  and's  followers  ? 

Ari.  Confin'd  together 

In  the  same  fashion  as  you  gave  in  charge ; 
Just  as  you  left  them :  all  prisoners,  sir, 
In  the  line-grove  which  weather-fends  l  your  cell : 
They  cannot  budge,  till  your  release.8     The  king, 
His  brother,  and  yours,  abide  all  three  distracted ; 
And  the  remainder  mourning  over  them, 
Brim-full  of  sorrow,  and  dismay  ;  but  chiefly 
Him  you  term'd,  sir,    "The  good  old  lord,  GOIK 

zalo  : " 

His  tears  run  down  liis  beard,  like  winter's  drops 
From  eaves  of  reeds :   Your  charm  so  strongly  works 

them, 

That  if  you  now  beheld  them,  your  affections 
Would  become  tender. 

Pro.  Dost  thou  think  so,  spirit  t 

Ari.  Mine  would,  sir,  were  I  human. 

1  i.  e.  defends  from  the  weather.  Line-grove  is  usually  printed 
Kme-grove ;  but  line-tree  is  the  true  name  of  the  tree  referred  to 
and  it  stands  so  in  all  the  old  copies.  v 

8  i  e.  until  .you  release  them. 


92  THE    TEMPEST.  ACT  V 

Pro.  And  mine  shall 

Hast  thou,  which  art  but  air,  a  touch,  a  feeling 
Of  their  afflictions,  and  shall  not  myself, 
One  of  their  kind,  that  relish  all  as  sharply, 
Passion  as  they,  be  kindlier  mov'd  than  thou  art  1 
Though  with  their  high  wrongs  I  am  struck  to  the 

quick, 

Yet,  with  my  nobler  reason,  'gainst  my  fury 
Do  I  take  part :   The  rarer  action  is 
In  virtue  than  in  vengeance  :  they  being  penitent, 
The  sole  drift  of  my  purpose  doth  extend 
Not  a  frown  further.     Go,  release  them,  Ariel : 
My  charms  I'll  break,  their  senses  I'll  restore, 
And  they  shall  be  themselves. 

An.  I'll  fetch  them,  sir.    [Exit. 

Pro.  Ye  elves  of  hills,  brooks,  standing  lakes, 

and  groves  ; 3 

And  ye,  that  on  the  sands  with  printless  foot 
Do  chase  the  ebbing  Neptune,  and  do  fly  him 
When  he  comes  back ;  you  demy-puppets,  that 
By  moon-shine  do  the  green-sour  ringlets  make, 
Whereof  the  ewe  not  bites ;  and  you,  whose  pastime 
Is  to  make  midnight-mushrooms ;  that  rejoice 
To  hear  the  solemn  curfew ;  by  whose  aid 
(Weak  masters  though  ye  be4)  I  have  be-dimm'd 
The  noon-tide  sun,  call'd  forth  the  mutinous  winds. 
And  'twixt  the  green  sea  and  the  azur'd  vault 
Set  roaring  war :  to  the  dread  rattling  thunder 
Have  I  given  fire,  and  rifted  Jove's  stout  oak 
With  his  own  bolt :  the  strong-bas'd  promontory 
Have  I  made  shake,  and  by  the  spurs  pluck'd  up 

*  This  speech  is  in  some  measure  borrowed  from  Medea's,  u> 
Ovid  ;  the  expressions  are,  many  of  them,  in  the  old  translation  by 
Goiding.  But  the  exquisite  fairy  imagery  is  Shakespeare's  own 

4  i.  e.  ye  are  powerful  auxiliaries,  but  weak  if  left  to  yourselves; 
jrour  employments  being  of  'he  trivial  nature  before:  mentioned. 


SC.  I.  THE    TEMPEST.  93 

The  pine,  and  cedar :  graves,  at  my  command, 

Have  wak'd  their  sleepers ;  op'd,  and  let  them  forth 

By  my  so  potent  art :  But  this  rough  magic 

I  here  abjure :  and,  when  I  have  requir'd 

Some  heavenly  music,  (which  even  now  I  do,) 

To  work  mine  end  upon  their  senses,  that 

This  airy  charm  is  for,  I'll  break  my  staff, 

Bury  it  certain  fathoms  in  the  earth, 

And,  deeper  than  did  ever  plummet  sound, 

I'll  drown  my  book.  [Solemn  music. 

He-enter  ARIEL  :  after  him,  ALONZO,  with  a  frantic 
gesture,  attended  by  GONZALO  ;  SEBASTIAN  and 
ANTONIO  in  like  manner,  attended  by  ADRIAN  and 
FRANCISCO  :  They  all  enter  the  circle  which  PROS- 
PERO  had  made,  and  there  stand  charmed;  which 
PROSPERO  observing,  speaks. 

A  solemn  air,  and  the  best  comforter 

To  an  unsettled  fancy,  cure  thy  brains, 

Now  useless,  boil'd  within  thy  skull ! 5  There  stand, 

For  you  are  spell-stopp'd. 

Holy  Gonzalo,  honourable  man, 
Mine  eyes,  even  sociable  to  the  show  of  thine, 
Fall  fellowly  drops.  —  The  charm  dissolves  apace ; 
And  as  the  morning  steals  upon  the  night, 
Melting  the  darkness,  so  their  rising  senses 
Begin  to  chase  the  ignorant  fumes  that  mantle 
Their  clearer  reason.  —  O  thou  good  Gonzalo  ! 

O 

My  true  preserver,  and  a  loyal  sir 
To  him  thou  follow'st,  I  will  pay  thy  graces 
Home,  both  in  word  and  deed.  —  Most  cruelly 
Didst  thou,  Alonzo,  use  me  and  my  daughter  : 

6  So  in  A  Midsummer-Night's  Dream : 

"  Lovers  and  madmen  have  such  seething  brains." 


94  THE    TEMPEST  ACT  V 

Thy  brother  was  a  fiirtherer  in  the  act ;  — 
Thou'rt  pinch'd  for't  now,  Sebastian.  —  Flesh  and 

blood, 

You  brother  mine,  that  entertain'd  ambition, 
Expell'd  remorse  and  nature  ;  6  who  with  Sebastian, 
(Whose  inward  pinches  therefore  are  most  strong,) 
Would  here  have  kill'd  your  king  ;  I  do  forgive  thec, 
Unnatural  though  thou  art !  —  Their  understanding 
Begins  to  swell ;   and  the  approaching  tide     . 
Will  shortly  fill  the  reasonable  shores, 
That  now  lie  foul  and  muddy.     Not  one  of  them, 
That  yet  looks  on  me,  or  would  know  me  :  —  Ariel, 
Fetch  me  the  hat  and  rapier  in  my  cell ; 

[Exit  ARTEL. 

I  will  disease  me,  and  myself  present, 
As  I  was  sometime  Milan  :  —  quickly,  spirit ; 
Thou  shall  ere  long  be  free. 

ARIEL  re-enters,  singing,  and  helps  to  attire 
PROSPERO. 

Jbi.    Where  the  bee  sucks,  there  suck  I ; 

In  a  cowslip's  bell  I  lie  ; 

There  I  couch  when  owls  do  cry : 

On  the  bat's  back  I  do  fly 

After  summer,  merrily.7 
Merrily,  merrily,  shall  I  live  now, 
Under  the  blossom  that  hangs  on  the  bough.8 

*  Remorse  is  pity,  tenderness  of  heart ;  nature  is  natural  ajfectit  n 

7  "  At  night,  '  when  owls  do  cry,'  Ariel  couches  '  in  a  cowslip's 
bell ; '  and  he  uses  <  the  bat's  back '  as  his  pleasant  vehicle,  to 
pursue  summer  in  its  progress    round    the  world,  and  thus  live 
merrily  under  continual  blossoms."     Such  appears  the  most  nat- 
ural as  well  as  most  poetical  meaning  of  this  much  disputed  pas- 
sage.    As  a  matter  of  fact,  however,  bats  do  not  migrate  in  quest 
of  summer,  but  become  torpid  in  winter.     Was  the  Poet  ignorant 
01  this,  or  did  he  disregard  it,  thinking  that  such  beings  as  Ariel 
were  not  bound  to  observe  the  rules  of  natural  history  ?  H. 

8  This  was  the  received  opinion:  so  in  Fairfax's  Tasso.  Book 
iv.  stanza  I1*  ; 


SC.  t.  THE    TEMPEST.  95 

Pro.   Why,  that's  my  dainty  Ariel !  I  shall  misa 

thee ; 

But  yet  thou  shall  have  freedom  :  so,  so,  so.  - 
To  the  king's  ship,  invisible  as  thou  art : 
There  shalt  thou  find  the  mariners  asleep 
Under  the  hatches  :  the  master  and  the  boatswain 
Being  awake,  enforce  them  to  this  place, 
And  presently,  I  pr'ythee. 

Ari.    I  drink  the  air  before  me,  and  return 
Or  e'er  your  pulse  twice  beat.  [Exit  ARIEL. 

Gon.  All  torment,  trouble,  wonder,  and  amaze- 
ment 

Inhabit  here :  Some  heavenly  power  guide  .us 
Out  of  this  fearful  country  ! 

Pro.  Behold,  sir  king, 

The  wronged  duke  of  Milan,  Prospero : 
For  more  assurance  that  a  living  prince 
Does  now  speak  to  thee,  I  embrace  thy  body , 
And  to  thee  and  thy  company,  I  bid 
A  hearty  welcome. 

Alon.  Whe'r 9  thou  beest  he,  or  no, 

Or  some  enchanted  trifle  to  .abuse  me, 
As  late  I  have  been,  I  not  know :   thy  pulse 
Beats,  as  of  flesh  and  blood  ;  and,  since  I  saw  thee 
The  affliction  of  my  mind  amends,  with  which, 
I  fear,  a  madness  held  me :  This  must  crave, 
(An  if  this  be  at  all,)  a  most  strange  story. 
Thy  dukedom  I  resign  ;  and  do  entreat 
Thou  pardon  me  my  wrongs :  —  But  how  should 

Prospero 
Be  living,  and  be  here  1 

'<  The  goblins,  fairies,  fiends,  and  furies  mad, 
Ranged  in  flow-He  dales,  and  raountaines  hore 
And  under  every  trembling  leaftliey  tit." 

9  Whether. 


9fi  THE    TEMPEST.  ACT  V 

Pro.  First,  noble  friend, 

Let  me  embrace  thine  age ;  whose  honour  cannot 
Be  measur'd.  or  confin'd. 

Gon.  Whether  this  be, 

Or  be  not,  I'll  not  swear. 

Pro.  You  do  yet  taste 

Some  subtilties  I0  o'  the  isle,  that  will  not  let  you 
Believe    things    certain.  —  Welcome,    my    friends 

all:  — 
[Aside  to  SEE.  and  ANT.]  But  you,  my  brace  of 

lords,  were  I  so  minded, 

I  here  could  pluck  his  highness'  frown  upon  you, 
And  justify  you  traitors :  at  this  time 
I'll  tell  no  tales. 

Seb.   [Aside.]   The  devil  speaks  in  him. 

Pro.  No  :  — 

For  you,  most  wicked  sir,  whom  to  call  brother 
Would  even  infect  my  mouth,  I  do  forgive 
Thy  rankest  fault  ;   all  of  them  ;  and  require 
My  dukedom  of  thee,  which,  perforce,  I  know, 
Thou  must  restore. 

Alon.  If  thou  beest  Prospero, 

Give  us  particulars  of  thy  preservation : 
How  thou  hast  met  us  here,  who  three  hours  since 
Were  wreck'd  upon  this  shore  ;  where  I  have  lost 
(How  sharp  the  point  of  this  remembrance  is  !) 
IVIy  dear  son  Ferdinand. 

Pro.  I  am  woe  n   for't,  sir. 

Alon.  Irreparable  is  the  loss ;  and  Patience 
Says,  it  is  past  her  cure. 

Pro.  I  rather  think, 

You  have  not  sought  her  help ;  of  whose  soft  grace, 

10  Subtilttet  are  quaint  deceptive  inventions ;  the  word  is  com 
mon  to  ancient  cookery,  in  which  a  disguised  or  ornamented  disb 
is  so  UTiuetL  n  I  am  sorry  for  it. 


SC.  I.  THE    TEMPEST.  97 

For  the  like  loss,  I  have  her  sovereign  aid, 
And  rest  myself  content. 

Alan.  You  the  like  loss  ? 

Pro.  As  great  to  me,  as  late ; 12  and  supportable 
To  make  the  dear  loss,  have  I  means  much  weaker 
Than  you  may  call  to  comfort  you ;  for  I 
Have  lost  my  daughter. 

4/o«.  A  daughter  ? 

0  heavens  !  that  they  were  living  both  in  Naples, 
The  king  and  queen  there !  that  they  were,  I  wish 
Myself  were  mudded  in  that  oozy  bed 

Where  my  son  lies.     When  did    you    lose    your 

daughter  ? 

Pro.  In  this  last  tempest.    I  perceive,  these  lords 
At  this  encounter  do  so  much  admire, 
That  they  devour  their  reason  ;  and  scarce  think 
Their  eyes  do  offices  of  truth,  their  words 
Are  natural  breath :  but,  howsoe'er  you  have 
Been  justled  from  your  senses,  know  for  certain, 
That  I  am  Prospero,  and  that  very  duke 
Which    was    thrust    forth    of  Milan ;    who    most 

strangely 
Upon  this  shore,  where    you    were  wreck'd,  wan 

landed, 

To  be  the  lord  on't.     No  more  yet  of  this  ; 
For  'tis  a  chronicle  of  day  by  day, 
Not  a  relation  for  a  breakfast,  nor 
Befitting  this  first  meeting.     Welcome,  sir  ; 
This  cell's  my  court :  here  have  I  few  attendants, 
And  subjects  none  abroad  :  pray  you,  look  in. 
My  dukedom  since  you  have  given  me  again, 

1  will  requite  you  with  as  good  a  thing ; 

At  least,  bring  forth  a  wonder  to  content  ye, 
As  much  as  me  my  dukedom. 

w  i.  e.  as  great  to  me,  and  as  late. 


98  THE    TEMPEST.  ACT  ? 

The  entrance  of  the  Cell  opens,  and  discovers  FERDI 
NAND  and  MIRANDA  playing  at  chest. 

Mira.  Sweet  lord,  you  play  me  false. 

Per.  No,  my  dearest  love, 

I  would  not  for  the  world. 

Mira.  Yes,  for  a  score  of  kingdoms  you  should 

wrangle, 
And  I  would  call  it  fair  play. 

Alon.  If  this  prove 

A  vision  of  the  island,  one  dear  son 
Shall  I  twice  lose." 

Seb.  A  most  high  miracle ! 

Fer.  Though  the  seas  threaten,  they  are  merciful : 
i  have  curs'd  them  without  cause.    [Kneels  to  ALON. 

Alon.  Now,  all  the  blessings 

Of  a  glad  father  compass  thee  about ! 
Arise,  and  say  how  thou  cam'st  here. 

Mira.  O,  wonder ! 

How  many  goodly  creatures  are  there  here ! 
How  beauteous  mankind  is  !  O  brave  new  world, 
That  has  such  people  in't ! 

Pro.  'Tis  new  to  thee. 

Alon.  What  is  this  maid,  with  whom  thou  wast 

at  play  1 

Your  eld'st  acquaintance  cannot  be  three  hours : 
Is  she  the  goddess  that  hath  sever'd  us, 
And  brought  us  thus  together  1 

Fer.  Sir,  she's  mortal ; 

But,  by  immortal  Providence,  she's  mine  : 
I  chose  her,  when  I  could  not  ask  my  father 
For  his  advice  ;  nor  thought  I  had  one  :  She 

13  The  sense  of  this  passage  is  not  altogether  clear.  The  word 
not  seems  wanting  after  prove ;  unless  if  have  by  some  means  got 
substituted  for  but.  Alonzo  has  lost  his  son  once,  and  if  this  which 
fie  now  sees  prove  not  a  mere  vision,  he  will  have  to  lose  bin 
egam.  H. 


SC.  I.  THE    TEMPEST.  99 

Is  daughter  to  this  famous  duke  of  Milan, 
Of  whom  so  often  I  have4  heard  renown, 
But  never  saw  before  ;   of  whom  I  have 
Receiv'd  a  second  life,  and  second  father 
This  lady  makes  him  to  me. 

Alon.  I  am  hers : 

But  O !  how  oddly  will  it  sound,  that  I 
Must  ask  my  child  forgiveness. 

Pro.  There,  sir,  stop  : 

Let  us  not  burden  our  remembrances 
With  heaviness  that's  gone. 

Gon.  I  have  inly  wept, 

Or  should  have  spoke  ere  this.    Look  down,  you  gods, 
And  on  this  couple  drop  a  blessed  crown  ; 
For  it  is  you,  that  have  chalk'd  forth  the  way 
Which  brought  us  hither  ! 

Alon.  I  say,  Amen,  Gonzalo  1 

Gon.  Was  Milan  thrust  from  Milan,  that  his  issue 
Should  become  kings  of  Naples  ?    O  !  rejoice 
Beyond  a  common  joy  :  and  set  it  down 
With  gold  on  lasting  pillars :   In  one  voyage 
Did  Claribel  her  husband  find  at  Tunis ; 
And  Ferdinand,  her  brother,  found  a  wife 
Where  he  himself  was  lost ;  Prospero  his  dukedom 
In  a  poor  isle ;  and  all  of  us,  ourselves, 
When  no  man  was  his  own.14 

Alon.  [  To  FER.  and  MIRA.]  Give  me  your  hands 
Let  grief  and  sorrow  still  embrace  his  heart, 
That  doth  not  wish  you  joy  ! 

Gon.  Be't  so  !  Amen  ! 

Re-enter  ARIEL,  loith  the  Master  and  Boatswain 
amazedly  following. 

0  look,  sir,  look,  sir !  here  are  more  of  us. 

'  i.  e.  when  no  man  was  in  his  senses,  or  had  self-possttrio* 


100  THE    TEMPEST.  ACT  V 

1  prophesied,  if  a  gallows  were  on  land, 
This  fellow  could  not  drown  :  —  Now,  blasphemy, 
That  swear'st  grace  o'erboard,  not  an  oath  on  shore ! 
Hast  thou  no  mouth  by  land  ?     What  is  the  news  ? 

Boats.  The  best  news  is,  that  we  have  safely  found 
Our  king,  and  company :  the  next,  our  ship, 
Which,  but  three  glasses  since,  we  gave  out  split, 
Is  tight,  and  yare,15  and  bravely  rigg'd,  as  when 
We  first  put  out  to  sea. 

Ari.  Sir,  all  this  service  ~) 

Have  I  done  since  I  went.  >  [Aside. 

Pro.  My  tricksy18  spirit !  j 

Alon.     These    are     not    natural    events ;     they 

strengthen 

From  strange  to  stranger  :  —  Say,  how  came  you 
hither  ? 

Boats.  If  I  did  think,  sir,  I  were  well  awake, 
I'd  strive  to  tell  you.     We  were  dead  of  sleep, 
And  (how  we  know  not)  all  clapp'd  under  hatches, 
Where,  but  even    now,  with   strange  and  several 

noises 

Of  roaring,  shrieking,  howling,  jingling  chains, 
And  more  diversity  of  sounds,  all  horrible, 
We  were  awak'd ;  straightway  at  liberty  : 
Where  we,  in  all  her  trim,  freshly  beheld 
Our  royal,  good,  and  gallant  ship ;  our  master 
Capering  to  eye  her  :  On  a  trice,  so  please  you, 
Even  in  a  dream,  were  we  divided  from  them, 
And  were  brought  moping  hither. 

Ari.  Was't  well  done  ?  ^ 

Pro.  Bravely,  my  diligence.  Thou  shall  >  [Aside 
be  free.  ) 

Alon.  This  is  as  strange  a  maze  as  e'er  men  trod 
And  there  is  in  this  business  more  than  nature 

15  i  e.  ready.  '•  i.  e.  adroit,  nimhl" 


SC.  1.  THE    TEMPEST.  101 

Was  ever  conduct  of : "  some  oracle 
Must  rectify  our  knowledge. 

Pro.  Sir,  my  liege, 

Do  not  infest  your  mind  with  beating  on  '" 
The  strangeness  of  this  business :  at  pick'd  leisure^ 
Which  shall  be  shortly,  single  I'll  resolve  you, 
(Which  to  you  shall  seem  probable,)  of  every 
These  happen'd  accidents :  till  when,  be  cheerful, 
And  think  of  each    tiling  well.  —  [.Aside.]     Come 

hither,  spirit : 

Set  Caliban  and  his  companions  free ; 
Untie  the  spell.   [Exit  ARIEL.]    How  fares  my  gra- 
cious sir  1 

There  are  yet  missing  of  your  company 
Some  few  odd  lads,  that  you  remember  not. 

Re-enter  ARIEL,   driving  in  CALIBAN,   STEPHANO, 
and  TRINCULO,  in  their  stolen  apparel. 

Ste.  Every  man  shift  for  all  the  rest,  and  let  no 
man  take  care  for  himself ;  for  all  is  but  fortune  :  — 
Coragio,  bully-monster,  coragio  ! 

Trin.  If  these  be  true  spies  which  I  wear  in  my 
head,  here's  a  goodly  sight. 

Cal.  O  Setebos  !  these  be  brave  spirits,  indeed ! 
How  fine  my  master  is !    I  am  afraid 
He  will  chastise  me. 

Seb.  Ha,  ha ! 

What  things  are  these,  my  lord  Antonio  ? 
Will  money  buy  them  1 

Ant.  Very  like  :  one  of  them 

Is  a  plain  fish,  and,  no  doubt,  marketable. 

Pro.  Mark  but  the  badges  of  these  men,  my  lords* 

17  Conductor  of. 

18  There  is  a  vulgur  expression  stil  La  use,  of  similar  import 
"  Still  hammering  at  it." 


102  THE    TEMPEST.  ACT  V 

Then  say,  if  they  be  true  : >9  —  This    misshapen 

knave, 

His  mother  was  a  witch ;  and  one  so  strong 
That  could  control  the  moon,  make  flows  and  ebbs, 
And  deal  in  her  command,  without  her  power :  *° 
These  three  have  robb'd  me ;  and  this  demi-devil, 
(For  he's  a  bastard  one,)  had  plotted  with  them 
To  take  my  life :  two  of  these  fellows  you 
Must  know,  and  own ;  this  thing  of  darkness  I 
Acknowledge  mine. 

Col.  I  shall  be  pinch'd  to  death. 

Alon.  Is  not  this  Stephano,  my  drunken  butler  ? 

Seb.  He  is  drunk  now  :  Where  had  he  wine  ? 

Alon,  And  Trinculo  is  reeling  ripe  :  Where  should 

they 

Find  this  grand  liquor  that  hath  gilded  them  ?  21  — 
How  cam'st  thou  in  this  pickle  ? 

Trin.  I  have  been  in  such  a  pickle,  since  I  saw 
you  last,  that,  I  fear  me,  will  never  out  of  my  bones : 
I  shall  not  fear  fly-blowing. 

Seb.  Why,  how  now,  Stephano  ? 

Ste.  O !  touch  me  not :  I  am  not  Stephano,  but 
a  cramp. 

Pro.  You'd  be  king  of  the  isle,  sirrah  ? 

Ste.  I  should  have  been  a  sore  one  then. 

Alon.  This  is  as  strange  a  thing  as  e'er  I  look'd  on. 
[Pointing  to  CALIBAN, 

Pro.  He  is  as  disproportion'd  in  his  manners, 
As  in  his  shape  :  —  Go,  sirrah,  to  my  cell ; 

19  Honest. 

*°  i.  e.  work  the  same  effects  as  the  moon  without  her  del« 
gated  authority. 

81  The  phrase  of  being  gilded  was  a  trite  one  for  being  drunk 
Fletcher  uses  it  in  The  Chances,  Act  iv.  sc.  3 : 

"  Duke.    Is  she  not  drunk  too  ? 
Con     A  little  gilded  o'er,  sir  :  old  sack,  ?4d  sack,  boy* 


SC.  1.  .          THE    TEMPEST.  103 

Take  with  you  your  companions  :  as  you  look 
To  have  my  pardon,  trim  it  handsomely. 

Col.  Ay,  that  I  will ;  and  I'll  be  wise  hereafter, 
And  seek  for  grace :    What  a  thrice  double  ass 
Was  I,  to  take  this  drunkard  for  a  god, 
And  worship  this  dull  fool  7 

Pro.  Go  to  ;  away  I 

Alon.    Hence,  and  bestow  your  luggage  wnere 
you  found  it. 

Scb.  Or  stole  it,  rather. 

[Exeunt  CAL.  STE.  and  Turn. 

Pro.  Sir,  I  invite  your  highness,  and  your  train, 
To  my  poor  cell :  where  you  shall  take  your  rest 
For  this  one  night ;   which,  part  of  it,  I'll  waste 
With  such  discourse,  as,  I  not  doubt,  shall  make  it 
Go  quick  away  :  the  story  of  my  life, 
And  the  particular  accidents  gone  by, 
Since  I  came  to  this  isle  :  And  in  the  morn 
I'll  bring  you  to  your  ship,  and  so  to  Naples, 
Where  I  have  hope  to  see  the  nuptial 
Of  these  our  dear-beloved  solemniz'd ; 
And  thence  retire  me  to  my  Milan,  where 
Every  third  thought  shall  be  m)  grave. 

Alon.  I  long 

To  hear  the  story  of  your  life,  which  must 
Take  the  ear  strangely. 

Pro.  I'll  deliver  all ; 

And  promise  you  calm  seas,  auspicious  gales, 
And  sail  so  expeditious,  that  shall  catch 
Your  royal  fleet  far  off.  —  My  Ariel.  —  chick,  — 
That  is  thy  charge  :  then  to  the  elements  ; 
Be  free,  and  fare  thou  well!  —  Please  you,  drtwi 
near.  [Exeunt 


104  THE    TEMPEST. 

EPILOGUE. 

SPOKEN    BY    PROSPE8O. 

Now  my  charms  are  all  o'erthrown. 
And  what  strength  I  have's  mine  own 
Which  is  most  faint :  now,  'tis  true, 
I  must  be  here  confin'd  by  you, 
Or  sent  to  Naples  :  Let  me  not, 
Since  I  have  my  dukedom  got, 
And  pardon'd  the  deceiver,  dwell 
In  this  bare  island  by  your  spell ; 
But  release  me  from  my  bands, 
With  the  help  of  your  good  hands.1 
Gentle  breath  of  yours  my  sails 
Must  fill,  or  else  my  project  fails, 
Which  was  to  please  :  Now  I  want 
Spirits  to  enforce,  art  to  enchant ; 
And  my  ending  is  despair, 
Unless  I  be  reliev'd  by  prayer ; 
Which  pierces  so,  that  it  assaults 
Mercy  itself,  and  frees  all  faults. 

As  you  from  crimes  would  pardon'd  be, 

Let  your  indulgence  set  me  free. 

1  i.  e.  by  your  applause.     Noise  was  supposed  to  dissolve  a 
spell.    Thus  before  in  this  play  : 

"  hush,  and  be  mute, 
Or  else  our  spelt  is  marr'd." 


INTRODUCTION 


THE  TWO  GENTLEMEN  OF  VERONA 


VAST  labour  and  research  have  been  spent  in  endeavours  u 
ascertain  the  times  when  Shakespeare's  several  plays  were  writ, 
ten,  and  the  sources  whence  his  plots  and  materials  were  drawn. 
The  subject  is  certainly  very  curious  and  interesting,  not  only  in 
reference  to  the  Poet's  external  history,  but  as  illustrating  the 
growth  and  progress  of  the  greatest  individual  mind  that  hath  re 
ported  itself  in  human  speech.  And,  though  the  desired  results 
have  seldom  been  reached,  enough  has  been  done  to  pay  the 
labour  :  even  where  the  end  has  not  been  gained  such  approxima- 
tions have  been  often  made  as  amply  vindicate  the  undertaking ; 
and  in  overhauling  the  musty  records  of  antiquity,  along  with 
much  that  is  valuable  only  or  chiefly  as  bearing-  upon  something 
else,  much  has  also  been  brought  to  light,  that  is  of  rare  value  in 
itself.  Thus  Shakespeare,  ever  fresh  and  ever  young  himself, 
keeps  alive  many  things  which  it  is  for  our  interest  not  to  let  die ; 
he  being,  as  it  were,  the  master  of  ceremonies  to  bring  us  ac 
quainted  with  the  great  spirits  that  cluster  and  revolve  around  him. 

We  are  apt  to  think  of  Shakespeare  too  much  as  an  abstraction 
of  intellectual  power,  with  whom  the  ordinary  laws  and  processes 
of  mental  life  and  action  had  little  or  nothing  to  do.  He  must 
indeed  have  been  a  prodigious  infant,  yet  an  infant  he  unquestion- 
ably was ;  and  had  to  proceed  by  the  usual  paths  from  infancy  to 
manhood,  how  unusual  soever  may  have  been  the  ease  and  speed 
of  his  passage.  Dowered  perhaps  with  such  a  portion  of  genius 
as  hath  fallen  to  no  other  mortal,  still  his  powers  had  to  struggle 
through  the  common  infirmities  and  encumbrances  of  our  nature 
For,  assuredly,  his  mind  was  not  born  full-grown  and  ready-fur- 
nished for  the  course  and  service  of  Truth,  but  had  to  creep,  totter 
and  prattle  ;  much  study,  observation,  experience,  in  short,  a  long, 
•evere  tentative  process  being  required  to  insiuew,  and  discipline, 
and  regulate  his  genius  into  power.  Had  he  been  naturally  fre* 


108  TWO    GENTLEMEN    OF    VERONA. 

from  inward  insufficiencies,  still  he  was  beset  with  clogs  and  draw- 
backs from  without :  to  act  upon  the  age  as  he  did,  he  must  needi 
have  been  more  or  less  acted  upon  by  it ;  and  even  had  he  been 
able  to  start  from  the  point  where  he  ended,  It  was  impracticable 
for  him  to  do  so,  since  in  that  case  he  would  have  been  too  far 
ahead  of  those  for  whom  he  wrote  to  take  them  along  with  him. 
And  such,  no  doubt,  were  the  very  trials  and  chastenings  whereby 
be  came  to  be 

"  of  a  rectified  spirit, 

By  many  revolutions  of  discourse  refin'd 

Frc  in  all  the  tartarous  moods  of  common  men  i 

most  severe 

In  fashion  and  collection  of  himself; 

And  then  as  clear,  and  confident  as  Jove." 

Dryden  rather  oddly  represents  the  Poet's  ghost  as  saying, 

"  Untaught,  unpracds'd,  in  a  barbarous  age, 
I  found  not,  but  created  first,  the  stage : " 

but  this  is  far  from  true,  the  ghost  being  made  to  utter  Dryden's 
thoughts,  not  Shakespeare's.  For,  though  the  least  that  ne  did 
may  be  worth  more  than  all  that  was  done  before  him,  and  his 
poorest  performances  surpass  the  best  of  his  models ;  it  is  never- 
theless certain  that  his  task  was  but  to  continue  and  perfect  what 
others  had  begun.  Not  only  were  the  three  forms  of  comedy, 
history,  and  tragedy  in  use  on  the  English  stage,  but  the  elements 
of  these  were  to  some  extent  blended  in  the  freedom  and  variety 
of  the  Romantic  Drama ;  though  of  course  in  nothing  like  th« 
purity  and  harmony  wherein  he  presented  them.  The  usage,  also, 
of  dramatic  blank-verse  stood  up  inviting  his  adoption  ;  there  be- 
ing scarce  any  variety  of  measure,  or  pause,  or  cadence,  of  which 
Marlowe  had  not  set  the  example :  though  no  one  before  or  since 
has  come  near  Shakespeare  in  the  maste.y  of  its  capabilities,— 
in  the  ever-varying,  never-tiring  fluctuation  of  his  verse ;  his 
genius  being  an  inexhaustible  spring  of  both  mental  and  verbal 
modulation.  Nor  can  this  be  rightly  regarded  as  any  alleviation 
of  his  task,  or  any  abatement  of  his  fame.  For  to  work  thus  with 
materials  and  upon  models  already  prepared,  without  being  drawn 
down  to  their  level  and  subdued  to  their  quality,  asks  a  highei 
order  an  J  exercise  of  power,  than  to  strike  out  in  a  way  and  will 
a  stock  entirely  new.  And  herein  it  is  that  the  absorbing,  ant 
purifying,  and  quickening  virtue  of  Shakespeare's  genius  is  best 
seen  :  he  had  not  a  drama  to  create  in  any  of  its  forms  or  ele- 
ments, but  a  drama  to  regenerate  and  rectify,  —  to  inform  its 
shapes  with  life  and  grace,  to  temper  and  mould  its  elements  in 
the  happ^v  symmetry  and  proportion  of  living  art.  Thus  his  work 
naturally  inked  in  with  the  whole  past :  in  his  hands  the  collective 


INTRODUCTION.  109 

(bought  and  wisdom  of  ages  were  smelted  out  of  the  earth  and  dross 
wherein  they  lay  imbedded,  and  wrought  into  figures  of  undccay 
ing  beauty ;  and  the  extraction  and  efficacy  of  centuries  were 
treasured  up  in  his  pages. 

It  can  hardly  be  questioned  that  THE  Two  GENTLEMEN  OP 
VERONA  was  among  the  earliest-written  of  our  author's  plays. 
This  is  apparent  from  the  internal  evidence :  the  frequency  of 
rhymes,  the  comparative  want  of  variety,  and  the  general  smooth- 
ness of  the  versification  showing  that  he  had  not  3ret  grown  to  a 
just  reliance  on  his  own  strength,  and  to  the  free  working  of  his 
powers  ;  that  he  was  rather  looking  at  his  models  than  oversee'ng 
them,  —  rather  mastered  by  them  than  mastering  them  and  rising 
upon  them.  Compared  to  the  plays  of  what  is  termed  his  '.bird 
or  even  his  second  period,  the  poetry,  rich  as  it  is,  has  more  of  a 
yrical  than  dramatic  cast ;  particular  parts  and  passages,  though 
often  full  of  beauty,  are  less  subordinated  to  the  whole,  and  seem 
more  as  if  used  for  their  own  sake  ;  the  general  style  and  struc- 
ture is  loose,  unvital,  inorganic  ;  and  we  miss  the  elose-k:;!uiiig 
of  thought  and  image,  the  subtle  and  sinewy  discourse,  and  the 
"  working  words,"  that  give  such  matchless  energy  and  operation 
to  his  later  and  riper  performances.  Hence,  no  doubt,  the  pei- 
suasion  of  certain  men,  that  Shakespeare  had  little  share  in  the 
making  of  this  play.  Concerning  whom  Mr.  Collier  says,  "  The 
notion  of  some  critics,  that  The  Two  Gentlemen  of  Verona  con- 
tains few  or  no  marks  of  Shakespeare's  hand,  is  strong  proof  of 
their  incompetence  to  form  a  judgment."  Wherein  we  agree  with 
him  ;  for  Shakespeare's  marks  are  set  all  over  the  play  :  but  they 
are  the  marks  of  his  "  prentice  hand,"  though  such  as  no  pren- 
tice hand  but  his  could  have  put  into  it ;  the  play,  especially  in 
the  more  comic  parts,  poor  as  these  are  beside  others  from  the 
same  source,  as  much  outstripping  any  thing  done  before  him  as  i« 
falls  short  of  what  he  afterwards  did. 

The  internal  evidence  is  corroborated  by  whatsoever  of  exter 
nal  evidence  hath  come  down  to  us.  Of  the  plays  mentioned  by 
Francis  Meres  in  his  Wit's  Treasury,  published  in  1598,  The  Two 
Gentlemen  of  Verona  stands  first  in  the  list.  He  says  :  "  As 
Plautus  and  Seneca  are  accounted  the  best  for  comedy  and  tragedy 
among  the  Latins  ;  so  Shakespeare  among  the  English  is  the  most 
excellent  in  both  kinds  for  the  stage.  For  comedy,  witness  his  Gen- 
tlemen of  Verona,  his  Errors,  his  Love's  Labour's  Lost,  his  Love's 
Labour  Won,*  his  Midsummer-Night's  Dream,  and  his  Merchant 
of  Venice ;  for  tragedy,  his  Richard  II.,  Richard  111.,  Henry  IV., 
King  Joan,  Titus  Aiidronicus,  and  his  Romeo  and  Juliet."  Sup- 
posing Meres  to  include  both  parts  of  Henry  IV.,  and  adding  lh« 
three  parts  of  Henry  VI.,  which  were  written  before  this  date, 


The  original  t;tle  of  All's  Well  That  Ends  Well 


110  TWO    GENTLEMEN    OF    VEHONA. 

we  have  sixteen  plays  out  of  thirty-seven,  when  the  author  was  ir 
his  thirty-fourth  year.  Which,  unless  we  attribute  to  him  such  a 
facility  and  fluency  of  pen  as  neither  the  reason  of  the  thing  nor 
the  facts  of  the  case  will  warrant,  will  force  us  to  set  his  firs* 
efforts  at  play-making  back  to  au  earlier  period  iu  his  life  than  is 
generally  supposed.  Nor,  considering  his  aptitudes  for  the  work, 
's  it  at  all  unlikely  that  he  made  some  attempts  that  way  even  be- 
"bre  he  left  Stratford  :  at  all  events,  that  some  of  the  plays  which 
we  now  have  were  written  before  the  end  of  his  twenty-fourth 
year,  seems  hardly  questionable.  And  if  it  seem  extraordinary 
that  so  young  a  man  should  have  produced  The  Two  Gentlemen 
of  Verona,  how  much  more  extraordinary  is  it  that  a  man  of  what 
soever  age  should  have  written  Lear ! 

In  1589  Shakespeare,  at  the  age  of  twenty-five,  was  a  joint 
proprietor  of  the  Blackfriars  theatre;  —  a  place  which  he  could 
hardly  have  won  but  by  ability  and  usefulness  in  the  offices  per 
taining  to  such  an  establishment.  And  where  was  he  so  likely  to 
be  able  and  useful  as  in  the  field  where  he  has  so  far  surpassed 
all  other  men  ? 

In  1592  appeared  "  A  Groatsworth  of  Wit,"  by  Robert  Greene, 
which  contains  an  unmistakeable  allusion  to  Shakespeare.  It  was 
written  amidst  the  anguishes  of  a  death-bed  repentance,  the  au 
thor's  purpose  being  to  dissuade  "  those  gentlemen,  his  quondam 
acquaintance,"  from  "  spending  their  wits  in  making  plays  ;  "  to 
which  end  he  uses  this  argument :  "  For  there  is  an  upstart  crow, 
beautified  with  our  feathers,  that  with  his  tigre's  lieart  wrapp'd  in 
a.  player's  hide  supposes  he  is  as  well  able  to  bombast  out  a  blank 
verse  as  the  best  of  jou;  and,  being  an  absolute  Johannes  Fac- 
tntiiin.  is  in  his  own  conceit  the  only  Shake-scene  in  a  country.' 
The  words  in  Italic  are  a  parody  of  a  verse  in  Henry  VI.,  "  O, 
tigre's  heart  wrapp'd  in  a  woman's  hide ;  "  which  goes  still  fur- 
ther to  ascertain  the  writer's  aim.  And  the  fair  inference  is,  thai 
Shakespeare  was  known  as  a  sort  of  Do-all,  a  Fac-totum,  who 
could  turn  his  hand  to  any  thing,  and  beat  Greene  and  his  asso- 
ciates in  the  very  walks  where  they  severally  excelled  ;  and  that 
he  was  successful  not  only  as  a  writer,  but  as  an  adapter  and 
improver  of  plays  :  in  which  latter  quality  he  had  perhaps  over- 
hauled some  of  their  writings,  and  thrown  the  authors  into  the 
shade  by  adding  more  to  them  than  they  were  originally  worth  ; 
thus  getting  beautified  with  their  feathers  because  he  had  feathen 
still  more  beautiful  of  his  own.  As  the  three  parts  of  Henry  VI., 
and  perhaps  Titus  Androuicus,  were  in  fact  adapted  from  preex- 
isting stock  copies,  into  which  Shakespeare  distilled  something  of 
the  life  and  spirit  of  his  genius,  it  is  quite  probable  thai  Greene 
and  those  whom  he  addresses  had,  jointly  or  severally,  a  hand  in 
writing  them. 

Soon  after  "  A  Groatsworth  of  Wit  "  was  written  and  before 
(t  was  published  Greene  died  ;  and  a  few  months  later  Henry 


INTRODUCTION.  Ill 

Chettle,  his  fellow-dramatist,  anil  his  publisher,  put  f'irth  a  book 
entitled  Kind-heart's  Dream,  wherein  he  regrets  the  attack  on 
•Shakespeare,  "  because  myself  have  seen  his  demeanour  no  less 
civil,  then  he  excellent  in  the  quality  he  professes  :  besides,  divers 
of  worship  have  reported  his  uprightness  of  dealing,  which  argues 
his  honesty,  and  his  facetious  grace  in  writing,  that  approves  his 
art."  It  is  considerable-  that  at  this  time  Shakespeare  had  pub- 
lished nothing,  his  Venus  and  Adonis  not  being  issued  till  the  fol- 
lowing year,  1593.  Yet  he  was  distinguished  for  "  his  facetious 
grace  in  writing,  that  approves  his  art;"  from  which  it  would 
seem  lhat  he  was  best  known  in  the  lighter  and  finer  graces  of 
poetry,  his  mastery  of  its  deeper  powers  being  as  yet  either  unat- 
tained  or  unappreciated.  How  was  he  so  likely  to  win  such  a 
reputation  as  by  plays  like  The  Two  Gentlemen  of  Verona,  Love's 
Labour's  Lost,  and  The  Comedy  of  Errors,  where  quips,  and 
quirks,  and  clenches  meet  us  in  showers  at  every  turn  ?  the  per 
sons  having  apparently  set  out  to  "  act  freely,  carelessly,  and 
capriciously,  as  if  their  veins  ran  with  quicksilver;  and  not  utter 
a  phrase  but  what  shall  come  forth  steept  in  the  very  brine  of 
conceit,  and  sparkle  like  salt  in  fire  ; "  yet  the  redundant  face- 
tiousness  is  every  where  touched  with  a  grace  at  that  time  un- 
exampled on  the  English  stage. 

All  which  amply  warrants  the  conclusion,  that  Shakespeare 
was  "  our  pleasant  Willy,"  whom  Spenser,  in  his  Tears  of  Tl>» 
Muses,  published  in  1591,  speaks  of  as 

"  the  man  whom  Nature's  selfe  had  made, 
To  mock  herselfe,  and  Truth  to  imitate." 

Uid  again,  after  complaining  that 

''  Each  idle  wit  at  will  presumes  to  make, 
And  doth  the  Learned's  taske  upon  him  take : 

"  But  that  same  gentle  Spirit,  from  whose  pen 

Large  streames  of  honnie  and  sweete  nectar  flowe, 
Scorning  the  boldness  of  such  base-borne  men, 

Which  dare  their  follies  forth  so  rashlie  throwe, 
Doth  rather  choose  to  sit  in  idle  cell, 
Thai,  so  himselfe  to  mockerie  to  sell." 

The  Two  Gentlemen  of  Verona  was  probably  one  of  the 
"  streames  "  that  drew  forth  this  no  less  appropriate  than  beauti- 
ful tribute  from  the  great  sweet  poet  of  Faery  Land.  For  even 
in  the  plays,  which  we  suppose  to  have  been  written  before  this 
period,  there  are  frequent  touches  of  that  inexpressible  sweetness 
and  delicacy  of  spirit  which  won  him  the  name,  "  my  gentle 


112  TWO    GENTLEMl^,    OF    VERONA. 

Shakespeare,"  and  which  comes  out  in   all  his  works,  like  the 
unconscious  issues  of  a  mind 

"  As  gsntle  as  the  stroking  wind 
Runs  o'er  the  gender  flowers." 

The  Two  Gentlemen  of  Verona  was  first  printed  in  the  folia 
of  1623,  where  it  follows  next  The  Tempest.  No  note  has  been 
discovered  of  the  performance  of  this  play  during  the  author's 
life.  Doubtless  it  was  brought  upon  the  stage,  for  the  Poet  had 
uo  thought  of  writing  dramas  merely  for  the  closet :  but  if  it  had 
been  acted  as  often  as  his  other  plays,  we  should  most  likely 
have  some  record  of  its  performance,  as  we  have  in  the  case  of 
so  many  of  the  others.  Notwithstanding  its  superiority  in  char- 
acter and  poetry  to  any  plays  then  in  use  from  other  hands,  per- 
haps its  comparative  excess  of  the  rhetorical  over  the  dramatic 
elements  made  it  less  popular  in  that  most  action-loving  age,  than 
many  far  below  it  in  all  other  respects.  This  lack  of  success  on 
the  boards  may  also  account  in  part  for  its  freedom  from  the  in- 
equalities we  find  in  several  of  his  earlier  plays  ;  as,  for  exam- 
ple, in  Love's  Labour's  Lost  and  All's  Well  That  Ends  Well 
there  are  parts  and  passages  where  both  the  tone  of  the  thought 
and  the  structure  of  the  verse  evince  a  pitch  of  mastership  that 
had  not  been  reached  when  the  plays  were  originally  written.  It 
was  then  quite  common  for  a  play,  when  brought  out  anew,  to  be 
revised  and  retouched  either  by  the  author  or  by  some  other 
hand  ;  and  some  of  Shakespeare's  are  known  to  have  undergone 
this  process  much  to  their  advantage.  Which  was  probably  the 
cause  of  the  inequalities  in  question ;  —  a  cause  that  would  not 
be  likely  to  operate,  unless  there  were  call  for  the  revival  of  a 
play. 

No  novel  or  romance  has  been  found,  to  which  Shakespeare 
could  have  been  muck  indebted  for  the  plot  or  matter  of  the  play 
before  us.  In  the  part  of  Julia  and  her  maid  Lucetta  there  are 
indeed  some  points  of  resemblance  to  the  Diana  of  Jorge  do 
Montmayor,  a  Spanish  romance  at  that  time  very  popular  in  Eng- 
land, and  of  which  an  English  version  by  Bartholomew  Yonge 
was  published  in  1598.  The  Diana  is  one  of  the  books  spared 
from  the  bonfire  of  Don  Quixote's  library,  because,  in  the  words 
of  the  Priest  who  superintends  the  burning,  "  They  do  not  de- 
serve to  be  burnt  like  the  rest,  for  they  cannot  do  the  mischief 
that  those  of  chivalry  have  done  :  they  are  works  of  genius  and 
fancy,  and  do  nobody  any  hurt."  The  part  from  which  Shake- 
speare is  thought  to  have  borrowed  is  the  story  of  Felismena,  the 
heroine  :  "  My  father  having  early  followed  my  mother  to  tha 
tomb,  I  was  left  an  orphan.  Henceforth  I  resided  with  a  distant 
relative ;  and,  at  the  age  of  seventeen,  fell  in  love  with  Do» 
Felix,  a  young  nobleman  of  the  province  where  I  lived.  Thf 


INTRODUCTION.  1 18 

object  of  my  affections  felt  a  reciprocal  passion  ;  but  his  father, 
having  learned  the  attachment  between  us,  sent  his  son  to  court 
with  a  view  to  prevent  our  union.  Soon  after  his  departure  I  fol- 
lowed him  in  the  disguise  of  a  page,  and  on  the  night  of  my 
arrival  discovered,  by  a  serenade  I  heard  him  give,  that  he  had 
disposed  of  his  affections.  Not  being  recognized,  I  was  taken 
into  his  service,  and  engaged  to  conduct  the  correspondence  with 
the  mistress  who  had  supplanted  me  in  his  heart."  Though 
Yonge's  version  of  the  Diana  was  not  published  till  1598,  several 
years  after  the  probable  date  of  The  Two  Gentlemen  of  Verona  ; 
yet  the  story  was  generally  well  known ;  parts  of  it  were  trans- 
lated in  Sidney's  Arcadia,  which  came  out  in  1590  ;  and  there  is 
good  reason  to  think  that  the  "  History  of  Felix  and  Philiomena," 
which  was  acted  at  court  as  far  back  as  1582,  was  a  play  founded 
on  the  story  of  Felix  and  Felismena.  So  that,  granting  Shake- 
speare to  have  followed  the  tale  in  question,  he  might  well  enough 
have  been  familiar  with  it  long  before  Yonge's  translation  appeared. 
But  the  truth  is,  such  and  similar  incidents  were  the  common  sta 
pie  of  romances  in  that  age.  And  the  same  may  be  said  touch- 
ing the  matter  of  Valentine's  becoming  captain  of  the  outlaws  ; 
for  which  the  Poet  has  been  written  down  as  obliged  to  the  Arca- 
dia. Excepting  the  Diana,  there  is  no  reason  to  think  tha» 
Shakespeare  was  indebted  to  any  thing  but  his.  own  invention  for 
the  materials  of  the  play  under  consideration. 

Dr.  Johnson  remarks,  that  "  in  this  play  there  is  a  strange  mix- 
ture of  knowledge  and  ignorance,  of  care  and  negligence."  IE 
proof  of  the  ignorance  he  then  adduces  the  Poet's  violation  of 
geography  in  making  his  persons  pass  from  Verona  to  Milan  by 
water,  there  being  no  such  passage  between  those  cities.  This 
is  one  of  the  departures  from  fact  which  critics  have  been  fond 
of  quoting,  in  order,  as  would  seem,  to  impeach  or  disrepute  his 
science.  But,  inasmuch  as  Shakespeare's  geography  and  chro- 
na'ogy  are  always  accurate  enough  when  such  accuracy  will  serve 
the  purpose  of  his  art,  it  seems  rather  questionable  whether  in  this 
case  his  inaccuracy  should  be  set  down  to  ignorance.  Perhaps, 
after  all,  he  showed  as  much  knowledge  here  as  he  meant  to  show  ; 
and  he  must  have  been  ignorant  indeed,  not  to  know  that  his 
geography  was  incorrect.  It  should  be  borne  in  mind  that  his 
purpose  was  art,  not  science  ;  that  he  spoke  to  the  imagination 
rather  than  the  understanding:  which  being  the  case,  science 
itself  would  tell  him  that  literal  or  geographies,  truth  was  to  be 
sacrificed,  in  so  far  as  such  sacrifice  would  serve  the  methods  of 
imagination  and  the  uses  of  art.  Thus,  by  the  laws  of  his  work, 
the  lower  gives  way  to  the  higher :  he  facilitates  the  passage  to 
Milan  for  the  convenience  of  his  hearers  in  that  quality  or  capacity 
wherein  he  addresses  them.  And  he  knew  well  enough  that  they 
did  not  visit  the  theatre  to  learn  geography  or  chronology,  but  to 
tee  a  vivid,  truthful,  lifelike  representation  of  action  character, 


114       TWO  GENTLEMEN  OF  VERONA. 

and  passion  ;  and  that  nothing  but  a  poor  conceit  of  scientific 
accuracy  would  stick  and  boggle  at  such  freedoms  as  art  and 
imagination  gladly  allow. 

The  Two  Gentlemen  of  Verona  betrays  much  the  same  unripe  - 
ness  in  its  characterization  as  we  have  remarked  in  its  other  quali- 
ties. Coleridge  pronounces  it  "  a  sketch,"  and  Hazlitt  says  it  is 
*  little  more  than  the  first  outlines  of  a  comedy  loosely  sketched 
in  ; "  which  expressions,  though  perhaps  somewhat  too  general  and 
sweeping,  do  not  seem  to  strike  very  wide  of  the  truth.  The 
main  exception  is  in  the  two  clownish  servants,  who,  though  so 
inelegant  and  unrefined  that  Pope  wanted  to  eject  them  from  their 
place,  display,  to  our  mind,  more  truth  and  energy  of  characteriza- 
tion, than  all  the  other  persons  put  together.  It  is  true,  they  are 
continually  pelting  those  about  them  with  very  small  wit,  wherein 
they  seem  rather  too  much  like  one  mind  in  two  persons  ;  bui 
their  wit,  if  such  it  may  be  called,  is  quite  as  good  as  that  of  theii 
betters  :  from  beneath  their  affectations  we  catch  some  tones  of 
native  humour :  their  talk,  rude  and  undignified  enough,  still 
relishes  of  nature,  and  smells  of  the  places  where  men  actually 
walk.  Launce,  master  of  quibbles  and  cranks,  with  his  warm 
heart  and  wagging  tongue  sobbing  in  parables  and  conceits,  is  a 
genuine  sprout  of  the  Poet's  brain.  The  scene  between  him  and 
his  dog  Crab,  where  he  recounts  the  sins  of  the  latter  which  ho 
has  taken  upon  himself,  to  save  the  poor  brute  from  being  cud 
gelled  and  killed,  is  one  of  those  odd,  touching,  nonsensical  things, 
such  as  we  find  nowhere  but  in  Shakespeare  and  nature. 

Launce  and  Speed,  Proteus  and  Valentine,  Julia  and  Silvia, 
seem  designedly  arranged  by  pairs,  and  have  such  a  mixture  of 
contrast  and  resemblance  between  them  as  might  fitly  serve  to 
herald  the  matchless  combinations  that  were  still  to  come  from  the 
same  cunning  hand.  Julia,  seeking  out  and  attending  her  faith- 
less lover  in  the  disguise  of  a  page,  and  even  making  herself  ser- 
vant to  his  infidelity,  is  one  of  those  exhibitions  of  female  purity, 
sweetness,  and  devotion,  wherein  Shakespeare  so  far  excels  all 
other  writers.  Her  innocence  and  gentleness  are  but  the  more 
apparent  for  the  chill,  rough  atmosphere  that  threatens  them ;  the 
Poet,  here  as  elsewhere,  multiplying  the  difficulties  of  the  situa- 
tion, the  better  to  approve  the  beauty  of  the  character.  Perhaps 
the  best  excuse  for  her  undertaking  is,  that  she  never  dreams  but 
her  lover's  heart  is  as  far  from  fraud  as  her  own,  till  she  finds 
him  with  proofs  to  the  contrary  on  his  tongue.  Julia,  however, 
is  little  else  than  a  dim  foreshadowing  of  Imogen  :  we  might 
almost  call  them  the  same  person,  now  seen  before,  now  after 
marriage ;  though,  in  the  latter  case,  by  a  much  clearer  light. 
Perhaps,  withal,  Imogen  has  both  more  rectitude  of  thought  and 
more  delicacy  of  feeling,  than  to  set  forth  on  such  an  adventure 
with  so  little  cause  :  for  Julia  has  no  persecution  at  home  to  drive 
her  away,  and  her  love  seems  rather  unwise  in  not  bearing  the 


INTRODUCTION.  lift 

absence  of  its  object,  this  being  so  manifestly  for  his  good.  — 
Silvia,  though  rather  thin  and  unsubstantial,  is  a  goodly,  graceful 
figure.  As  strong  in  love  perhaps  as  Julia  ;  of  demeanour  not  quite 
so  pretty,  but  more  becoming ;  a  little  more  artful,  and  withal  much 
•nore  prudent  and  practical  ;  though  her  virtue  be  far  above  sus- 
picion, yet  she  raises  a  shrewd  doubt  whether  the  offers  of  a  second 
lover  would  be  so  greatly  unwelcome  to  her,  but  that  he  under- 
takes to  supplant  the  first,  instead  of  accepting  a  place  beside 
him  in  her  thoughts.  In  her  disguise  and  Sight  there  is  no  such 
appearance  of  turning  romantic  for  the  sake  of  romance,  as  strikes 
us  in  the  case  of  Julia. 

Proteus,  truant  to  love,  and  thereby  rendered  tatse  to  friendship, 
moves  little  feeling  of  any  sort,  as  his  faults  appear  to  spring  from 
the  rank  and  undisciolined  impulses  of  youth.  His  passion  is  evi- 
dently of  the  kind  that  thinks  more  of  itself  than  of  its  onject ; 
and  his  much  talking  about  it  breeds  in  us  a  secret  distrust  of  its 
quality  from  the  first,  as  knowing, 

"  When  the  blood  burns,  how  prodigally  the  spul 
Lends  the  tongue  vows  : " 

for  which  cause  we  do  not  wonder  that  it  betrays  him  into  some 
thing  of  baseness.  But,  though  passion  seduces  him  from  truth 
and  reason,  the  failure  of  his  undertaking  and  Julia's  heroic  con- 
stancy recover  him  to  them  :  love,  overmastered  in  the  absence 
of  its  object,  resumes  its  sway  in  her  presence ;  and  experience 
brings  him  to  the  discovery  of  his  own  weakness,  which  is  the 
beginning  of  wisdom,  and  the  first  stepping  towards  virtue.  — 
In  Valentine  we  have  the  rudiments,  and  something  more,  of  a 
truly  noble  and  beautiful  character.  His  slowness  to  take  the 
meaning  of  Silvia's  artful  and  enigmatical  invitations  finely  exem- 
plifies the  innate  modesty  of  a  true  affection,  that  is  kept  from 
discerning  the  signs  of  a  return  by  a  sense  of  its  own  un worthiness. 
And  yet,  for  some  cause  or  other,  these  persons  do  not  greatly 
interest  or  move  us  ;  there  being  an  appearance  of  art  either  in 
the  characters  themselves  or  in  the  delineation  of  them,  that  still 
beats  back  our  sympathies,  and  keeps  us  from  really  feeling  as  in 
the  presence  of  nature  while  with  them.  Nevertheless,  the  play, 
taksn  as  a  whole,  illustrates  with  considerable  skill  the  truan* 
fickleness  of  human  passion,  and  the  weakness  of  human  reason 
when  opposed  by  passion,  and  at  the  same  time  depicts  the  beauty 
of  maiden  truth  and  constancy.  Mr.  Hallam  sets  it  down  as 
"  probably  the  first  English  comedy  in  which  characters  are  drawc 
from  social  life,  at  once  ideal  ami  true." 


PERSONS  REPRESENTED 


DUKE  of  MILAN,  Father  to  Silvia. 
VALENTINE,    )  >-,     ,  f,T 

PROTEUS,        \  Gentlemen  of  Verona. 

ANTOJITO,  Father  to  Proteus. 
THURIO,  a  foolish  Rival  to  Valentine. 
EGLAMOUK.  Agent  for  Silvia  in  her  escape. 
SPEED,  a  clownish  Servant  to  Valentine. 
LAUNCH,  Servant  to  Proteus. 
PANTHINO,  Servant  to  Antonio. 
Host,  where  Julia  lodges  in  Milan. 
Outlaws. 


JULIA,  a  Lady  of  Verona,  beloved  by  Proteus. 
SILVIA,  the  Duke's  Daughter,  beloved  by  Valentine. 
LUCETTA,  Waitingwoman  to  JuKa. 

Servants,  Musicians. 

SCENE,  sometimes  in  VERONA  ;  sometimes  in  MILAN 
and  on  the  frontiers  of  MANTUA. 


TWO  GENTLEMEN  OF  VERONA 


ACT  I. 

SCENE    I.     An  open  place  in  Verona, 

Enter  VALENTINE  and  PROTEUS. 

Vol.  CEASE  to  persuade,  my  loving  Proteus 
Home-keeping  youth  have  ever  homely  wits. 
Were't  not,  affection  chains  thy  tender  days 
To  the  sweet  glances  of  thy  honour'd  love, 
I  rather  would  entreat  thy  company, 
To  see  the  wonders  of  the  world  abroad, 
Than,  living  dully  sluggardiz'd  at  home, 
Wear  out  thy  youth  with  shapeless  idleness.* 
But,  since  thou  lov'st,  love  still,  and  thrive  therein, 
Even  as  I  would,  when  I  to  love  begin. 

Pro.  Wilt  thou  begone  1  Sweet  Valentine,  adieu  ! 
Think  on  thy  Proteus,  when  thou,  haply,  seest 
Some  rare  note-worthy  object  in  thy  travel : 
Wish  me  partaker  in  thy  happiness, 
When  thou  dost  meet  good  hap ;  and  in  thy  danger, 
If  ever  danger  do  environ  thee, 
Commend  thy  grievance  to  my  holy  prayers, 
For  I  will  be  thy  beadsman,3  Valentine. 

'  Milton  has  the  same  play  upon  words  in  his  Comus  i 
"  It  is  for  homely  features  to  keep  home ; 

They  had  their  name  thence." 

J  Idleness  is  called  shapeless,  as  preventing  the  shaping  of  tte 
eharacter  and  manners.  H. 

1   A  beadsman,  as  the  word  is  here  used,  is  one  who  offer*  up 


I  18  TWO    GENTLEMEN  ACT  1. 

VaL  And  on  a  love-book  praj  for  my  success. 

Pro.  Upon  some  book  I  love,  I'll  pray  for  thee. 

VaL  That's  on  some  shallow  story  of  deep  love, 
How  young  Leander  cross'd  the  Hellespont. 

Pro.  That's  a  deep  story  of  a  deeper  love  ; 
For  he  was  more  than  over  shoes  in  love. 

VaL  'Tis  true  ;  but  you  are  over  boots  in  love, 
And  yet  you  never  swam  the  Hellespont. 

Pro.  Over  the  boots  ?  nay,  give  me  not  the  boots  ' 

VaL  No,  I  will  not,  for  it  boots  thee  not. 

Pro.  What1? 

VaL  To  be  in  love,  where  scorn  is  bought  with 

groans  ; 

Coy  looks,  with  heart-sore  sighs ;   one   fading  mo- 
ment's mirth, 

With  twenty  watchful,  weary,  tedious  nights : 
Tf  haply  won,  perhaps  a  hapless  gain ; 
[f  lost,  why,  then  a  grievous  labour  won ; 
However,4  but  a  folly  bought  with  wit, 
Or  else  a  wit  by  folly  vanquished. 

Pro.   So,  by  your  circumstance  you  call  me  fool. 

VaL  So,  by  your  circumstance,6 1  fear,  you'll  prove. 

prayers  for  another's  welfare.  Thus  we  are  told  that  Sir  Henry 
Lee,  upon  retiring  from  the  office  of  Champion  to  Queen  Eliza- 
beth, said  "  his  hands,  instead  of  wielding  the  lance,  should  now 
be  held  up  in  prayer  for  Her  Majesty's  welfare  ;  and  he  trusted  sh6 
would  allow  him  to  be  her  beadsman,  now  that  he  had  ceased  to 
incur  knightly  perils  in  her  service."  Bead  was  the  Anglo-Saxon 
word  for  prayer,  and  so  gave  name  to  the  small  wooden  balls 
which  were  used  in  numbering  prayers,  and  a  string  of  which  was 
called  a  rosary.  Such  appears  to  have  been  the  origin  of  the 
name,  if  not  of  the  thing,  a  string  of  beads.  H. 

4  A  proverbial  expression,  now  disused,  signifying,  "  Don't 
make  a  laughing-stock  of  me."  Perhaps  deduced  from  a  humour 
ous  punishment  at  harvest-home  feasts  in  Warwickshire. 

*  That  is,  either  way  ;  whether  "  haply  won  "  or  "  lost."    H. 

•  We  have  here  a  play  upon  the  word  circumstance,  the  first 
being  used  for  circumlocution,  as  in  Othello  :  "  He  evades  then- 
with    a    bombast  circumstance,  horribly  stuiT'd   with   epithets  ul 


JsU.   1.  OF    VERONA.  1  IU 

Pro.  'Tis  Love  you  cavil  at :  I  am   not  Love. 

Val.  Love  is  your  master,  for  he  masters  you  ; 
And  he  that  is  so  yoked  by  a  fool, 
Metliinks,  should  not  be  clironicled  for  wise. 

Pro.   Yet  writers  say,  as  in  the  sweetest  but! 
The  eating  canker  dwells,  so  eating  love 
Inhabits  in  the  finest  wits  of  all. 

Val.  And  writers  say,  as  the  most  forward  bud 
Is  eaten  by  the  canker  ere  it  blow, 
Even  so  by  love  the  young  and  tender  wit 
Is  turn'd  to  folly  ;  blasting  in  the  bud, 
Losing  liis  verdure  even  in  the  prime, 
And  all  the  fair  effects  of  future  hopes. 
But  wherefore  waste  I  time  to  counsel  thee, 
That  art  a  votary  to  fond  desire  1 
Once  more,  adieu :   My  father  at  the  road 
Expects  my  coming,  there  to  see  me  shipp'd. 

Pro.  Aiid  thither  will  I  bring  thee,  Valentine. 

Val.  Sweet  Proteus,  no  ;  now  let  us  take  our  leava 
To  Milan  let  me  hear  from  thee  by  letters,7 
Of  thy  success  in  love,  and  what  news  else 
Betideth  here  in  absence  of  thy  friend ; 
And  1  likewise  will  visit  thee  with  mine. 

Pro.  All  happiness  bechance  to  thee  in  Milan  ! 

Val.  As  much  to  you  at  home  ;  and  so,  farewell ! 

[Exit. 

Pro.  He  after  honour  hunts,  I  after  love  : 
He  leaves  his  friends,  to  dignify  them  more ; 
I  leave  myself,  my  friends,  and  all  for  love. 
Thou,  Julia,  thou  hast  metamorphos'd  me ; 
Made  me  neglect  my  studies,  lose  my  time, 

war;"  —  the  second  for  course  of  action  or  conduct.  Thus  Barei 

in  his  Alvearie.  published  in  1580  :  "  To  use  great  circumstarut 

of  woordes,  to  go  about  the  bushe."  H. 

7  The  construction  is,  "  Let  me  hear  from  thee  by  letters  sj 
Milau."' 


f20  TWO    GENTLEMEN  ACT   > 

War  with  good  counsel,  set  the  world  at  nought , 
Made  wit  with  musing  weak,  heart  sick  with  thought. 

Enter  SPEED. 

Speed.  Sir  Proteus,  save  you  !  SaAV  you  my  master1! 

Pro.    But  now  he  parted  hence,  to  embark  for 
Milan. 

Speed.  Twenty  to  one,  then,  he  is  shipp'd  already ; 
And  I  have  played  the  sheep,8  in  losing  him. 

Pro.  Indeed  a  sheep  doth  very  often  stray, 
An  if  the  shepherd  be  awhile  away. 

Speed.  You  conclude  that  my  master  is  a  shep- 
herd then,  and  I  a  sheep  ? 

Pro.  I  do. 

Speed.     Why,  then    my  horns    are    his    horns, 
whether  I  wake  or  sleep. 

Pro.  A  silly  answer,  and  fitting  well  a  sheep. 

Speed.  This  proves  me  still  a  sheep. 

Pro.  True  ;  and  thy  master  a  shepherd. 

Speed.  Nay,  that  I  can  deny  by  a  circumstance 

Pro.  It  shall  go  hard,  but  I'll  prove  it  by  another 

Speed.  The  shepherd  seeks  the  sheep,  and  not 
the  sheep  the  shepherd;  but  I  seek  my  master,  and 
my  master  seeks  not  me  :  therefore  I  am  no  sheep 

Pro.  The  sheep  for  fodder  follow  the  shepherd, 
the  shepherd  for  food  follows  not  the  sheep ;  thoti 
for  wages  followest  thy  master,  thy  master  for  wages 
follows  not  thee :  therefore  thou  art  a  sheep. 

Speed.  Such  another  proof  will  make  m«  cry  baa. 

Pro.  But,  dost  thou  hear  ?   gav'st  thou  my  letter 
to  Julia  1 
.  Speed.  Ay,  sir  :  I,  a  lost  mutton,  gave  your  let- 

*  In  Warwickshire,  and  some  other  counties,  sheep  is  pro 
uounced  ship.  Without  this  explanation  the  jest,  such  as  it  U 
might  escape  the  reader. 


SC.  I.  OF    VERONA.  !'/£! 

ter  to  her,  a  lac  d  mutton  ; '  and  she,  a  lac'd  mut- 
ton, gave  me,  a  lost  mutton,  nothing  for  my  labour. 

Pro.  Here's  too  small  a  pasture  for  such  a  stor* 
of  muttons. 

Speed.  If  the  ground  be  overcharg'd,  you  were 
best  stick  her. 

Pro.  Nay,  in  that  you  are  astray  :  'twere  best 
pound  you. 

Speed.  Nay,  sir,  less  than  a  pound  shall  serve  me 
for  carrying  your  letter. 

Pro.  You  mistake  :  I  mean  the  pound,  a  pinfold. 

Speed.  From  a  pound  to  a  pin  1  fold  it  over  and 

over, 

'Tis  threefold  too  little  for  carrying  a  letter  to  your 
lover. 

Pro.  But  what  said  she  1  —  [SPEED  nods.]  —  Did 
she  nod  ? 10 

Speed.  Ay. 

Pro.  Nod-ay?   why,  that's  noddy. 

Speed.  You  mistook,  sir  :  I  say  she  did  nod ; 
nnd  you  ask  me,  if  she  did  nod  ;  and  I  say,  ay. 

Pro.  And  that  set  together,  is  noddy. 

Speed.  Now  you  have  taken  the  pains  to  set  it 
together,  take  it  for  your  pains. 

'  "  Laced  mutton,"  we  are  told,  "  was  so  established  a  term  fur 
a  courtesan,  that  a  lane  in  Clcrkenwell,  much  frequented  by  loose 
women,  was  thence  called  Mutton  Lane."  Speed  apparently  uji- 
derstaaids  the  person  he  is  talking  with,  for  it  is  observable  thai 
he  uses  no  such  language  in  his  speech  with  Valentine  ;  and  the 
reason  of  his  daring  to  speak  thus  respecting  Julia  is  to  be  found 
in  the  nature  of  Sir  Proteus'  passion,  which,  though  doubtless 
characteristic  of  him,  is  not  very  honourable  to  him.  H. 

10  These  words  were  supplied  by  Theobald  to  introduce  whai 
fc.lows.  The  poor  quibble  just  below  is  more  apparent  in  th* 
original,  where,  according  to  the  mode  of  that  time,  the  affirma 
live  particle,  ay,  is  spelt  I.  Noddy  was  a  game  at  cards  :  applied 
to  a  person,  the  word  meant  foot ;  Noddy  being  the  name  of  wbal 
»  commonly  called  the  Jack.  H 


122  TWO    GENTLEMEN  ACT  I. 

Pro.  No,  no  ;  you  shall  have  it  for  bearing  the 
letter. 

Speed.  Well,  I  perceive  I  must  be  fain  to  bear 
with  you. 

Pro.   Why,  sir,  how  do  you  bear  with  me  ? 

Speed.  Marry,  sir,  the  letter  very  orderly ;  having 
nothing  but  the  word  noddy  for  my  pains. 

Pro.  Beshrew  me,  but  you  have  a  quick  wit. 

Speed.  And  yet  it  cannot  overtake  your  slow 
purse. 

Pro.  Come,  come  ;  open  the  "matter  in  brief. 
What  said  she  1 

Speed.  Open  your  purse,  that  the  money  and  the 
matter  may  be  both  at  once  deliver'd. 

Pro.  Well,  sir,  here  is  for  your  pains :  What, 
said  she  1 

Speed.   Truly,  sir,  I  think  you'll  hardly  win  her. 

Pro.  Why  1  Couldst  thou  perceive  so  much 
from  her  1 

Speed.  Sir,  I  could  perceive  nothing  at  all  from 
her  ;  no,  not  so  much  as  a  ducat  for  delivering  your 
letter :  And  being  so  hard  to  me  that  brought  your 
mind,  I  fear  she'll  prove  as  hard  to  you  in  telling 
your  mind.11  Give  her  no  token  but  stones,  for 
she's  as  hard  as  steel. 

Pro.     What !    said  she  nothing  1 

Speed.  No,  not  so  much  as  —  "take  this  for  th) 
pains."  To  testify  your  bounty,  I  thank  you,  you 
have  testern'd  me  ; 12  in  requital  whereof,  henceforth 

11  The  meaning  is,  "  Since  she  has  been  so  hard  to  me,  the 
bearer  of  your  mind,  I  fear  she  will  be  equally  hard  to  you  whose 
mind  I  bore."  H. 

18  That  is,  you  have  given  me  a  testern.  Testern,  now  calle<l 
tester,  was  a  coin  of  sixpence  value,  first  issued  in  England  in 
1642,  and  so  named  from  having  a  teste.  that  is,  a  head,  stamped 
upon  it.  It  was  introduced  from  France,  and  was  originally  Hid 
but  afterwards  fell  to  12d,  9d.  and  final  y  Gd,  where  it  stuck.  H 


sC.  II.  OF    VERONA.  123 

carry  your  letters  yourself:    And  BO,  sir,  I'll  com- 
mend you  to  ray  master. 

Pro.  Go,  go,  begone,  to  save  your  ship  from  wreck 
/hich  cannot  perish,  having  thee  aboard, 
Being  destined  to  a  drier  death  on  shore. — 
[  must  go  send  some  better  messenger  ; 
I  fear  my  Julia  would  not  deign  my  lines, 
Receiving  them  from  such  a  worthless  post. 

[Exeunt 

SCENE    II. 

The  same.     JULIA'S  Garden. 
Enter  JULIA  and  LUCETTA 

Jul.  But  say,  Lucetta,  now  we  are  alone, 
Wouldst  thou,  then,  counsel  me  to  fall  in  love  ? 

Luc.  Ay,  madam ;  so  you  stumble  not  unheedfully. 

Jul.  Of  all  the  fair  resort  of  gentlemen, 
That  every  day  with  parle  '  encounter  me, 
In  thy  opinion  which  is  worthiest  love  ? 

Luc.    Please  you  repeat  their  names,  I'll  show 

my  mind 
According  to  my  shallow  simple  skill. 

Jul.  What  think'st  thou  of  the  fair  Sir  Eglamour  t 

Luc.  As  of  a  knight  well-spoken,  neat  and  fine ; 
Cut,  were  I  you,  he  never  should  be  mine. 

Jul.  What  think'st  thou  of  the  rich  Mercatio  ? 

Luc.  Well  of  his  wealth ;  but  of  himself,  so,  so. 

Jul.  What  think'st  thou  of  the  gentle  Proteus? 

Luc.  Lord,  lord  !  to  see  what  folly  reigns  in  us  \ 

JuL  How  now !  what  means  this  passion  at  hii 
name  ? 

Luc.  Pardon,  dear  madam :  'tis  a  passing  shame, 

1  Parle  is  talk 


124  TWO    GENTLEMEN  ACT  I 

That  I,  unworthy  body  as  I  am, 

Should  censure  2  thus  on  lovely  gentlemen. 

Jul.  Why  not  on  Proteus,  as  of  all  the  rest  ? 

Luc.  Then  thus,  —  of  many  good  I  think  him  best 

Jul.  Your  reason  ? 

Luc.  I  have  no  other  but  a  woman's  reason : 
think  him  so,  because  I  think  him  so. 

Jul.    And  wouldst  thou  have  me  cast  my  love  on 
him  ? 

Luc.  Ay,  if  you  thought  your  love  not  cast  away. 

Jul.  Why,  he  of  all  the  rest  hath  never  mov'd  me. 

Luc.  Yet  he  of  all  the  rest,  I  think,  best  loves  ye. 

JuL  His  little  speaking  shows  his  love  but  small. 

Luc.  Fire,3  that's  closest  kept,  burns  most  of  all. 

Jul.  They  do  not  love,  that  do  not  show  their  love. 

Luc.  O  !  they  love  least,  that  let  men  know  their 
love. 

Jul.  I  would  I  knew  his  mind. 

Luc.  Peruse  this  paper,  madam. 

Jul.  "  To  Julia."  —  Say,  from  whom  1 

Luc.  That  the  contents  will  show. 

Jul.  Say,  say ;  who  gave  it  thee  ? 

Luc.    Sir  Valentine's  page  ;    and  sent,  I  think, 

from  Proteus : 

He  would  have  given  it  you,  but  I,  being  in  the  way, 
Did  in  your  name  receive  it :  pardon  the  fault,  I  pray. 

JuL  Now,  by  my  modesty,  a  goodly  broker  !  * 

*  To  censure,  in  Shakespeare's  time,  generally  signified  to  give 
one's  judgment  or  opinion.     Thus  in  The  Winter's  Tale,  Act  ii. 
•c.  1  :  "  How  blest  am  I  in  my  just  censure  !  in  my  true  opinion  !  " 

*  Fire  is  here  a  dissyllable.     The    play  has    other  like  ex- 
amples :    "  But  qualify  the  fire's  extreme  rage ; "    and  again  i 
"  Trenched  in  ice,  which  with  an  hour's  heat,"  &c.     These  and 
similar  words  were  continually  used  thus  by  the  poets  of  Shake- 
speare's time  :  and  yet  Steevens  undertook  to  correct  the  Poet's 
measure  in  such  cases  by  supplying  another  word!  H. 

4  A  matchmaker.     It  was  sometimes  used  for  a  procuress 


SC.  IL  OF    VERONA.  125 

Dare  you  presume  to  harbour  wanton  lines  ? 
To  whisper  and  conspire  against  my  youth  ] 
Now,  trust  me,  'tis  an  office  of  great  worth, 
And  you  an  officer  fit  for  the  place  ! 
There,  take  the  paper :  see  it  be  return'd  ; 
Or  else  return  no  more  into  my  sight. 

Luc.  To  plead  for  love  deserves  more  fee  than  hate. 

Jul.  Will  you  be  gone  1 

Luc.  That  you  may  ruminate.   [Exit 

Jul.  And  yet,  I  would  I  had  o'erlook'd  the  letter 
It  were  a  shame  to  call  her  back  again, 
And  pray  her  to  a  fault  for  which  I  chid  her. 
What  fool  is  she,  that  knows  I  am  a  maid, 
And  would  not  force  the  letter  to  my  view ! 
Since  maids,  in  modesty,  say  "  No,"  to  that 
Which  they  would  have  the  proff'erer  construe,  "  Ay  M 
Fie,  fie  !  how  wayward  is  this  foolish  love, 
That,  like  a  testy  babe,  will  scratch  the  nurse. 
And  presently,  all  humbled,  kiss  the  rod  ' 
How  churlishly  I  chid  Lucetta  hence, 
When  willingly  I  would  have  had  her  here ! 
How  angerly  I  taught  my  brow  to  frown, 
When  inward  joy  enforc'd  my  heart  to  smile  ! 
My  penance  is,  to  call  Lucetta  back, 
And  ask  remission  for  my  folly  past :  — 
What  ho !  Lucetta  ! 

Re-enter  LUCETTA. 

Luc.  What  would  your  ladyship  '' 

Jul.  la  it  near  dinner  time  ? 

Luc,  I  would  it  were  ; 

That  you  might  kill  your  stomach 5  on  your  meat, 
And  not  upon  your  maid. 

*  Stomach  is  here  used  in  the  double  sense  *»f  hunger  and 
anger.  H. 


120  TWO    GENTLEMEN  ACT  1 

JuL  Wnat  is't  that  you  took  up  so  gingerly  1 

Luc.  Nothing. 

JuL  Why  didst  thou  stoop  then  ? 

Luc.  To  take  a  paper  up  that  I  let  fall. 

JuL  And  is  that  paper  nothing  ? 

Luc.  Nothing  concerning  me. 

JuL  Then  let  it  lie  for  those  that  it  concerns. 

Luc.  Madam,  it  will  not  lie  where  it  concerns, 
Unless  it  have  a  false  interpreter. 

JuL  Some  love  of  yours  hath  writ  to  you  in  rhyme. 

Luc.  That  I  might  sing  it,  madam,  to  a  tune : 
Give  me  a  note  :  your  ladyship  can  set 6 — 

JuL  As  little  by  such  toys  as  may  be  possible : 
Best  sing  it  to  the  tune  of  "  Light  o'  love." 

Luc.  It  is  too  heavy  for  so  light  a  tune. 

JuL  Heavy  ?  belike  it  hath  some  burden  then. 

Luc.    Ay ;  and  melodious    were   it,  would  you 
sing  it. 

JuL  And  why  not  you  ? 

Luc.  I  cannot  reach  so  high. 

JuL  Let's  see  your  song  :  —  How  now,  minion  ! 

Luc.  Keep  tune  there  still,  so  you  will  sing  it  out  • 
And  yet,  methinks,  I  do  not  like  this  tune. 

JuL  You  do  not  1 

Luc.  No,  madam  ;  it  is  too  sharp. 

JuL  You,  minion,  are  too  saucy. 

Luc.  Nay,  now  you  are  too  flat, 

And  mar  the  concord  with  too  harsh  a  descant : 7 
There  wanteth  but  a  mean  to  fill  your  song. 

6  That  is,  set  it  to  music.  Julia  in  the  next  line  plays  upon 
the  word,  understanding  it  in  the  sense  of  set  by,  or  make  ac- 
count of.  H. 

T  The  simple  air  in  music  was  called  the  plain  song,  or  grouna ; 
the  descant  was  what  is  now  called  variations  ;  the  mean  what  w<> 
call  the  tenor.  This  use  of  musical  terms  before  a  popular  audi- 
ence would  seem  to  infer,  which  was  indeed  the  case,  that  taste 
and  knowledge  in  music  was  a  characteristic  trait  of  "  merry 


SC.   II.  OF    VERONA.  I'.!? 

Jul.  The  mean  is  drown'd  with  your  unruly  base. 

Luc.  Indeed,  I  bid  the  base  8  for  Proteus. 

Jul.  Tins  babble  shall  not  henceforth  trouble  me. 
Here  is  a  coil 9  with  protestation  \     [Tears  the  letter. 
do,  get  you  gone ;  and  let  the  papers  lie : 
You  would  be  fingering  them,  to  anger  me. 

Luc.  She  makes  it  strange ;  but  she  would  be 

best  pleas'd 
To  be  so  anger'd  with  another  letter.  [Exit. 

Jul.  Nay,  would  I  were  so  anger'd  with  the  same  ' 

0  hateful  hands  \  to  tear  such  lonng  words : 
Injurious  wasps  \  to  feed  on  such  sweet  honey, 
And  kill  the  bees  that  yield  it  with  your  stings  \ 10 
I'll  kiss  each  several  paper  for  amends. 

Look,  here  is  writ  —  "  kind  Julia : " —  Unkind  Julia  \ 
As  in  revenge  of  thy  ingratitude, 

1  throw  thy  name  against  the  bruising  stones, 
Trampling  contemptuously  on  thy  disdain. 
And  here  is  writ  —  "  love-wounded  Proteus."  - 
Poor  wounded  name  \  my  bosom,  as  a  bed, 

Shall  lodge  thee,  till  thy  wound  be  throughly  heal'd ; 
And  thus  I  search  it  with  a  sovereign  kiss. 

England  in  the  olden  time."  What  with  the  sour  fanaticism  of 
the  Commonwealth,  and- the  licentiousness  of  the  Restoration,  both 
of  which  were  equally  fatal,  this  beautiful  feature  was  so  blasted, 
'hat  it  has  never  been  fully  recovered.  H. 

8  Lucetta  is  still  quibbling-,  and  turns  the  allusion  off  upon  the 
rustic  game  of  base,  or  prison-base,  in  which  one  ran  and  cfaal 
lengeti  another  to  catch  him.  H. 

»  That  is,  bustle,  stir. 

10  Shakespeare  has  given  several  proofs  of  a  practical  acquaint- 
ance with  the  economy  of  bees ;  some  of  which  the  naturalist  as 
well  as  the  poet  may  study  with  profit ;  as  the  fine  description  in 
Henry  V.  Act  i.  sc.  2,  "  for  so  work  the  honey-bees,"  &.c.  He 
nad  doubtless  observed  how  they  "  make  boot  upon  the  summer's 
velvet  buds,1'  and  also  how  the  "  injurious  wasps  "  plunder  them, 
sting-ing  them  to  death  for  the  sweetness  they  yield.  Knight  says, 
"The  metaphoi  of  the  pretty  pouting  Julia  is  as  accurate  as  it  if 
heautiful."  H 


128  TWO    GENTLEMEN  ACT  «. 

But  twice,  or  thrice,  was  Proteus  written  down  : 

Be  calm,  good  wind,  blow  not  a  word  away, 

Till  I  have  found  each  letter  in  the  letter, 

Except  mine  own  name ;  that  some  whirlwind  bes.1 

Unto  a  ragged,  fearful,  hanging  rock, 

And  throw  it  thence  into  the  raging  sea. 

Lo  !  here  in  one  line  is  his  name  twice  writ,  — 

"  Poor  forlorn  Proteus,  passionate  Proteus, 

To  the  sweet  Julia :  "  —  that  I'll  tear  away  ;  — 

And  yet  I  will  not,  sith11  so  prettily 

He  couples  it  to  his  complaining  names. 

Thus  will  I  fold  them  one  upon  another : 

Now  kiss,  embrace,  contend,  do  what  you  will. 

Re-enter  LUCETTA. 

Luc.  Madam, 
Dinner  is  ready,  and  your  father  stays. 

Jul.  Well,  let  us  go. 

Luc.  What !  shall  these  papers  lie  like  tell-tales 
here  1 

Jul.  If  you  respect  them,  best  to  take  them  up. 

Luc.  Nay,  I  was  taken  up  for  laying  them  down  • 
Yet  here  they  shall  not  lie,  for  catching  cold.12 

Jul.  I  see  you  have  a  month's  mind  13  to  them. 

11  Since. 

11  That  is,  lest  they  should  catch  cold ;  anciently  a  comm  HI 
foim  of  expression. 

•3  "  A  month's  mind,"  says  Mr.  Collier,  "  is  here  equivalent  to 
1  a  great  mind,'  or  strong  inclination."  In  its  "  ritual  sense  "  the 
phrase  meant  a  month's  remembrance,  referring  to  the  masses  or 
other  solemnities  enjoined  in  the  will  of  a  deceased  person  for  the 
repose  of  his  soul.  The  strong  desire  with  which  these  ceremonies 
were  regarded  may  have  caused  the  phrase  to  signify  an  eager 
longing  in  which  sense  it  is  generally  thought  to  be  used  here 
It  occurs  in  Ben  Jonson's  Magnetic  Lady:  "  I  have  a  month' 
mind  to  peep  a  little  too  ;  "  and  in  Hudibras  : 

"  For  if  a  trumpet  sound,  or  drum  beat, 

Who  hath  not  a  month's  mind  to  a  combat  T  "        H. 


SC.  IIL  OF    VERONA.  129 

Luc.  Ay,  madam,  you  may  say  what  sights  you 

see ; 
I  see  things  too,  although  you  judge  I  wink. 

JuL  Come,  come;  will't  please  you  go  1   [Exeunt. 

SCENE  m. 

The  same.     A  Room  in  ANTONIO'S  House. 
Enter  ANTONIO  and  PANTHINO. 

Ant.  Tell  me,  Panthino,  what  sad  '  talk  was  that, 
Wherewith  my  brother  held  you  in  the  cloister  1 

Pant.  'Twas  of  his  nephew  Proteus,  your  son. 

Ant.  Why,  what  of  him  ? 

Pant.  He  wonder'd,  that  your  lordship 

Would  suffer  him  to  spend  his  youth  at  home ; 
While  other  men,  of  slender  reputation, 
Put  forth  their  sons  to  seek  preferment  out : 
Some  to  the  wars,  to  try  their  fortune  there ; 
Some,  to  discover  islands  far  away  ; 
Some,  to  the  studious  universities.2 
For  any,  or  for  all  these  exercises, 
He  said,  that  Proteus,  your  son,  was  meet; 
And  did  request  me  to  importune  you 

1  That  is,  grave  or  serious. 

*  This  passage  is  all  alive  with  the  spirit  of  Shakespeare's  own 
time,  when  enterprise,  adventure,  and  study  were  every  where  the 
order  of  the  day,  and  all  ranks  were  stirred  with  noble  agitations  ; 
the  mind's  life  being  then  no  longer  exhausted  in  domestic  broils, 
nor  as  yet  stifled  by  a  passion  for  gain.  And,  to  say  nothing1  of 
foreign  discoveries,  where  wonder  and  curiosity  were  ever  finding 
new  stores  of  food,  and  still  grew  hungry  by  what  they  fed  on  ; 
or  of  Flemish  campaigns,  where  chivalrous  honour  and  mental  ac- 
complishment "  kissed  each  other ; "  what  a  tremendous  perturba- 
tion must  have  run  through  the  national  mind,  what  a  noble  fury 
must  have  enriched  the  nation's  brain,  to  make  it  effervesce  in 
such  a  flood  as  hath  rolled  down  to  us  in  the  works  of  Spenser 
Hooker,  Shakespeare,  and  Bacon  !  n 


UN  TWO    GENTLEMEN  \CT  L 

To  let  liim  spend  his  time  no  more  at  home, 
Which  would  be  great  impeachment  to  his  age, 
(n  having  known  no  travel  in  his  youth. 

Ant.  Nor  need'st  thou  much  importune  me  to  that 
Whereon  this  month  I  have  been  hammering 
[  have  consider'd  well  his  loss  of  time, 
And  how  he  cannot  be  a  perfect  man, 
Not  being  tried  and  tutor'd  in  the  world. 
Experience  is  by  industry  achiev'd, 
And  perfected  by  the  swift  course  of  time  : 
Then,  tell  me,  whither  were  I  best  to  send  him  * 

Pant.  I  think,  your  lordship  is  not  ignorant 
How  his  companion,  youthful  Valentine, 
Attends  the  emperor  in  his  royal  court. 

Ant.  I  know  it  well. 

Pant.  'Twere  good,  I  think,  your  lordship  sent 

him  thither  : 

There  shall  he  practise  tilts  and  tournaments,3 
Hear  sweet  discourse,  converse  with  noblemen, 
And  be  in  eye  of  every  exercise, 
Worthy  his  youth  and  nobleness  of  birth. 

Ant.  I  like  thy  counsel :   well  hast  thou  advis'd ; 
And,  that  thou  mayst  perceive  how  well  I  like  it 
The  execution  of  it  shall  make  known : 
Even  with  the  speediest  expedition 
I  Mill  despatch  him  to  the  emperor's  court. 

3  Here  again  the  Poet  is  alluding'  to  the  practices  of  his  owr 
time.  At  an  earlier  period  when  wa  •  was  expressly  conducted 
by  the  laws  of  kaigh'hoocl,  "the  tournay,  wi'h  all  its  magnifi- 
cence, its  nvnstrels,  and  'icralds,  and  damosels  in  lofty  towers,  hau 
its  hard  blows,  its  wounds,  and  sometimes  its  deaths."  But  the 
trurnameuts  of  Shakespeare's  time,  and  such  as  Proteus  was  sent 
to  practise,  were  «•  the  tournaments  of  ^ay  pen.ions  and  pointless 
lances  ; "  as  magnificent  indeed  as  th^  old  knightly  ei.counters 
but  "  as  harmless  to  the  combatants  as  those  between  other  less 
noble  actors,  —  the  heroes  of  the  stage."  The  Poet  had  no 
doubt  witnessed  some  of  these  "  courtly  pastimes,"  as  held  by 
Her  JVtajesty  in  the  Tilt-yard  at  Westminster,  or  by  proud  Leices 
ler  ii.  the  Tilt-yard  a.  Kenilworth.  n 


SO.  I1L  OF    VERONA.  13  / 

Pant,  To-morrow,  may  it  please  you,  Don  AJ 

phonso, 

With  other  gentlemen  of  good  esteem, 
Are  journeying  to  salute  the  emperor, 
And  to  commend  their  service  to  his  will. 

Ant.  Good  company ;  with  them  shall  Proteus  go : 
And,  in  good  time, — now  will  we  break  with  him.4 

Enter  PROTEUS. 

Pro.  Sweet  love  !  sweet  lines  !  sweet  life  ! 
Here  is  her  hand,  the  agent  of  her  heart ; 
Here  is  her  oath  for  love,  her  honour's  pawn : 
O !  that  our  fathers  would  applaud  our  loves, 
To  seal  our  happiness  with  their  consents  ! 
O  heavenly  Julia ! 

Ant.    How  now  !    what  letter  are  you  reading 
there  7 

Pro.  May't  please  your  lordship,  'tis  a  word  or  two 
Of  commendations  sent  from  Valentine, 
Oeliver'd  by  a  friend  that  came  from  him. 

Ant.  Lend  me  the  letter :  let  me  see  what  news. 

Pro.    There  is  no  news,  my  lord;  but  that  he 

writes 

How  happily  he  lives,  how  well  belov'd 
And  daily  graced  by  the  emperor  ; 
Wishing  me  with  him,  partner  of  his  fortune. 

Ant.  And  how  stand  you  affected  to  his  wish  * 

Pro.  As  one  relying  on  your  lordship's  will, 
And  not  depending  on  his  friendly  wish. 

Ant.  My  will  is  something  sorted  with  his  wish 

4  That  is,  break,  or  open,  the  matter  to  him  ;  —  one  of  many  in 
stances  showing  how  much  the  use  of  prepositions  has  changed 
To  break  with  a  person,  now  wears  a  very  different  meaning 
Antonio's  words,  in  good  time,  refer  to  Proteus,  whom  he  just  thai 
sees  coming.  t? 


132  TWO    GENTLEMEN  ACT  I 

Muse  not  that  I  thus  suddenly  proceed; 
For  what  I  will,  I  will,  and  there  an  end. 
I  am  resolv'd,  that  thou  shalt  spend  some  time 
With  Valentinus  in  the  emperor's  court : 
What  maintenance  he  from  his  friends  receives, 
Like  exhibition  *  thou  shalt  have  from  me. 
To-morrow  be  in  readiness  to  go  : 
Excuse  it  not,  for  I  am  peremptory. 

Pro.  My  lord,  I  cannot  be  so  soon  provided  • 
Please  you,  deliberate  a  day  or  two. 

Ant.  Look,  what  thou  want'st,  shall  be  sent  aftel 

thee  : 

No  more  of  stay ;  to-morrow  thou  must  go.  — 
Come  on,  Panthino :  you  shall  be  employ'd 
To  hasten  on  his  expedition. 

[Exeunt  ANT.  and  PANT 

Pro.    Thus  have  I  shunn'd  the  fire,  for  fear  of 

burning ; 

And  drench'd  me  in  the  sea,  where  I  am  drown'd: 
I  fear'd  to  show  my  father  Julia's  letter, 
Lest  he  should  take  exceptions  to  my  love ; 
And  with  the  vantage  of  mine  own  excuse 
Hath  he  excepted  most  against  my  love. 
O  !  how  this  spring  of  love  resembleth 

The  uncertain  glory  of  an  April  day ; 
Which  now  shows  all  the  beauty  of  the  sun, 

And  by  and  by  a  cloud  takes  all  away.8 

'  Exhibition  is  allowance  of  money;  it  is  still  used  in  thu 
Universities  for  a  stipend. 

'  It  is  curious  to  note  with  what  accuracy  as  well  as  vividness 
the  Poet  here  paints  the  manners  of  April.  The  play  was  written 
in  his  youth,  when  he  was  more  at  home  with  external  nature  than 
with  man,  his  mind  not  having  yet  clomb  the  height  of  this  latter 
argument.  What  a  study  is  traced  in  the  progress  of  his  mind 
as  the  gay  riches  of  vision  gradually  yielded  to  the  sterner  and 
•olider  riches  of  thought '  the  first,  however,  giving  a  promise  of 
the  last,  and  the  last  keeping  up  a  remembrance  of  the  first.  Th« 


SC.   III.  OF    VERONA.  138 

Re-enter  PANTHINO. 

Pant.  Sir  Proteus,  your  father  calls  for  you  : 
He  is  in  haste ;  therefore,  I  pray  you  go. 

Pro.  Why,  this  it  is !  my  heart  accords  thereto ; 
And  yet  a  thousand  times  it  answers,  no.     \Excunt* 


ACT   II. 

SCENE    I.     Milan.     A  Room  in  the  DUKE'S 

Palace. 

Enter  VALENTINE  and  SPEED. 

Speed.  Sir,  your  glove. 

Vol.  Not  mine ;  my  gloves  are  on. 

Speed.  Why,  then  this  may  be  yours,  for  this  u 
but  one.1 

Vol.  Ha !  let  me  see :  ay,  give  it  me,  it's  mine :  — 
Sweet  ornament  that  decks  a  thing  divine ! 
4h  Silvia !  Silvia ! 

Speed.  Madam  Silvia  !  madam  Silvia ! 

Val  How  now,  sirrah  ? 

Speed.  She  is  not  within  hearing,  sir. 

i*.ne  ecstasy  with  which,  in  his  earlier  plays,  as  in  his  poems,  hti 
dwells  on  the  movements  and  aspects  of  nature  has  often  sent  oui 
thoughts  to  a  passage  of  Wordsworth,  describing  his  youthful  self  i 

"  For  nature  then 

To  me  was  all  in  all.     I  cannot  paint 
What  then  I  was.     The  sounding  cataract 
Haunted  me  like  a  passion  :  the  tall  rock, 
The  mountain,  and  the  deep  and  gloomy  wood, 
Their  colours  and  their  forms,  were  then  to  me 
An  appetite  ;  a  feeling  and  a  love."  H. 

1   On  and  one  were  anciently  pronounced  alike,  and  freq«enti» 
written  so. 


134  TWO    GEMTLEMEN  ACT  II 

Vol.  Why,  sir,  who  bade  you  call  her  '. 

Speed.  Your  worship,  sir  ;   or  else  I  mistook. 

Val.  Well,  you'll  still  be  too  forward. 

Speed.  And  yet  I  was  last  chidden  for  being  too 
slow. 

Val.  Go  to,  sir  :  Tell  me,  do  you  know  madam 
Silvia  1 

Speed.  She  that  your  worship  loves  ? 

Val.  Why,  how  know  you  that  I  am  in  love  T 

Speed.  Marry,  by  these  special  marks  :  First,  you 
have  learn'd,  like  Sir  Proteus,  to  wreath  your  arms 
like  a  malcontent ;  to  relish  a  love-song,  like  a 
robin-redbreast ;  to  walk  alone,  like  one  that  had 
the  pestilence  ;  to  sigh,  like  a  schoolboy  that  had 
lost  his  ABC;  to  weep,  like  a  young  wench  that 
had  buried  her  grandam  ;  to  fast,  like  one  that  takes 
diet ; 2  to  watch,  like  one  that  fears  robbing  ;  to 
speak  puling,  like  a  beggar  at  Hallowmas.3  You 
were  wont,  when  you  laugh'd,  to  crow  like  a  c.ock ; 
when  you  walk'd,  to  walk  like  one  of  the  1  ons ; 
when  you  fasted,  it  was  presently  after  dinner ;  when 
you  look'd  sadly,  it  was  for  want  of  money  :  and 
now  you  are  metamorphos'd  with  a  mistress,  that, 
when  I  look  on  you,  I  can  hardly  think  you  my 
master. 

Val.  Are  all  these  things  perceiv'd  in  me  1 

Speed.  They  are  all  perceiv'd  without  ye. 

VaL  Without  me  1    They  cannot. 

Speed.    Without   you  !    nay,  that's   certain,   for, 

*  To  take  diet  is  to  be  under  a  regimen  for  a  disease. 

*  The  feast  of  All-hallows,  or  All  Saints,  at  which  time  the  pool 
in  Staffordshire  go  from  parish  to  parish  a  smiling,  as  they  call  it  j 
that  is,  begging  and  puling,  (or  singing  small,  as  Bailey's  Dic- 
tionary explains  puling,)  for  soul-cakes,  and  singing  what  they 
call  the  souler's  song.     These  terms  point  out  the  condition  of  this 
benevolence,  which  was,  that  the  beggars  should  pray  for  the  soul? 
of  the  giver's  departed  friends. 


fC.  I.  OF    VERONA.  135 

without  you  were  so  simple,  none  else  would :  but 
you  are  so  without  these  follies,  that  these  follies  are 
within  you,  and  shine  through  you  like  the  water  in 
an  urinal ;  that  not  an  eye,  that  sees  you,  but  is  a 
physician  to  comment  on  your  malady. 

Vol.  But,  tell  me,  dost  thou  know  my  lady  Silvia  1 

Speed.  She  that  you  gaze  on  so,  as  she  sits  at 
tiupper  1 

Vol.  Hast  thou  observ'd  that  ?  even  she  I  mean. 

Spred.  Why,  sir,  I  know  her  not. 

Vol.  Dost  thou  know  her  by  my  gazing  on  her, 
and  yet  know'st  her  not  ? 

Speed.  Is  she  not  hard-favour'd,  sir  ? 

Vol.  Not  so  fair,  boy,  as  well  favour'd. 

Speed.  Sir,  I  know  that  well  enough. 

Vol.  What  dost  thou  know  1 

Speed.  That  she  is  not  so  fair,  as  (of  you)  well 
favour'd. 

Vol.  I  mean,  that  her  beauty  is  exquisite,  but  her 
favour  infinite. 

Speed.  That's  because  the  one  is  painted,  and  the 
other  out  of  all  count. 

Vol.  How  painted  ?  and  how  out  of  count  ? 

Speed.  Marry,  sir,  so  painted  to  make  her  fair, 
that  no  man  'counts  of  her  beauty. 

Vol.  How  esteem'st  thou  me  1  I  account  of  her 
beauty. 

Speed.  You  never  saw  her  since  she  was  de« 
for  in 'd. 

Vol.  How   ong  hath  she  been  deform'd  1 

Speed.  Ever  since  you  lov'd  her. 

Vol.  I  have  lov'd  her  ever  since  I  saw  her;  and 
still  I  see  her  beautiml. 

Speed.  If  you  love  her,  you  cannot  see  her 

Val.  Why? 


130  TWO    GENTLEMLN  ACT   IL 

Speed.  Because  love  is  blind.  O!  tint  you  hud 
mine  eyes ;  or  your  own  eyes  had  the  lights  they 
were  wont  to  have,  when  you  chid  at  Sir  Proteus 
for  going  ungarter'd ! 4 

Val  What  should  I  see  then  1 

Speed.  Your  own  present  folly,  and  her  passing 
deformity :  for  he,  being  in  love,  could  not  see  to 
garter  his  hose ;  and  you,  being  in  love,  cannot  see 
to  put  on  your  hose. 

Val.  Belike,  boy,  then  you  are  in  love ;  for  last 
morning  you  could  not  see  to  wipe  my  shoes. 

Speed.  True,  sir  ;  I  was  in  love  with  my  bed :  I 
thank  you,  you  swing'd  me  for  my  love,  which 
makes  me  the  bolder  to  chide  you  for  yours. 

Val.  In  conclusion,  I  stand  affected  to  her. 

Speed.  I  would  you  were  set ; 8  so  your  affection 
would  cease. 

Val.  Last  night  she  enjoin'd  me  to  write  some 
lines  to  one  she  loves. 

Speed.  And  have  you  ? 

Val.  I  have. 

Speed.  Are  they  not  lamely  writ  ? 

Val.  No,  boy,  but  as  well  as  I  can  do  them :  — • 
Peace  !  here  she  comes. 

Enter  SILVIA. 

Speed.  O  excellent  motion  ! 8  O  exceeding  pup 
pet !  now  will  he  interpret  to  her. 

4  Going  ung-artered  is  enumerated  by  Rosalind  as  one  of  the 
undoubted  marks  of  love.  "  Then  your  hose  should  be  ungartered, 
your  bonnet  unbanded,"  &c.  As  You  Like  It,  Act  iii.  sc.  2. 

*  Set,  for  seated,  in  opposition  to  stand  in  the  preceding  lino. 
It  appears,  however,  to  be  used  metaphorically  in  the  sense  ap- 
plied to  the  sun  when  it  sinks  below  the  horizon. 

'  A  motion  signified,  in  Shakespeare's  time,  a  pupvet-shtne 
Speed  means,  what  a  fine  puppet-show  shall  we  have  now  !  Here 


<SC    I.  OF    VERONA.  137 

Val     Madam    and    mistress,  a  thousand  good- 
raorrows. 

Speed.    [Aside.]    O  !  'give  ye  good  even  :  here's 
a  million  of  manners. 

Sil.     Sir    Valentine    and    servant,    to    you   two 
thousand. 

Speed.    [Aside.]     He   should  give   her  interest ; 
and  she  gives  it  him. 

Val.  As  you  enjoin'd  me,  I  have  writ  your  letter 
Unto  the  secret  nameless  friend  of  yours; 
Which  I  was  much  unwilling  to  proceed  in, 
But  for  my  duty  to  your  ladyship. 

Sil.  I  thank  you,  gentle  servant :  "Tis  very  clerk- 
ly 7  done. 

Val.   Now  trust  me,  madam,  it  came  hardly  off; 
For,  being  ignorant  to  whom  it  goes, 
I  writ  at  random,  very  doubtfully. 

Sil.  Perchance  you  think  too  much  of  so  much 
pains  ? 

Val.  No,  madam,  so  it  stead  you,  1  will  write, 
Please  you  command,  a  thousand  times  as  much  : 
And  yet — . 

Sil.  A  pretty  period !  Well,  I  guess  the  sequel : 
And   yet  I   will  not   name  it ;  —  and  yet  I   care 

not ;  — 

And  yet  take  this  again  ;  —  and  yet  I  thank  you, 
Meaning  henceforth  to  trouble  you  no  more. 

Speed.    [Aside]    And   yet   you   will ;   and   yet, 
another  yet. 

Val.    What  means  your  ladyship?   do  you  no! 
like  it  ? 

Sil.  Yes,  yes  ;  the  lines  are  very  quaintly  writ 

is  the  principal  puppet  to  whom  u»y  master  will  be  the  interpreter 
The  showman  was  then  frequently  called  the  interpreter. 
7  That  is,  like  a  scholar. 


V38  TWO    GENTLEMEN  ACT  IL 

But  since  unwillingly,  take  them  again : 
Nay,  take  them. 

Vol.   Madam,  they  are  for  you. 

Sil.  Ay,  ay  ;   you  writ  them,  sir,  at  my  request 
But  I  will  none  of  them ;  they  are  for  you  : 
I  would  have  had  them  writ  more  movingly. 

Val.  Please  you,  I'll  write  your  ladyship  another 

Sil.  And,  when  it's  writ,  for  my  sake  read  it  over : 
4nd,  if  it  please  you,  so  ;  if  not,  why,  so. 

Val.  If  it  please  me,  madam  !  what  then  1 

Sil.  Why  if  it  please  you,  take  it  for  your  labour : 
And  so  good-morrow,  servant.  [Exit. 

Speed.  O  jest  unseen,  inscrutable,  invisible, 
As  a  nose  on  a  man's  face,  or  a  weathercock  on  a 

steeple  ! 

My  master  sues  to  her ;  and  she  hath  taught  her  suitoi , 
He  being  her  pupil,  to  become  her  tutor. 
O  excellent  device !  was  there  ever  heard  a  better  1 
That  my  master,  being  scribe,  to  himself  should 
write  the  letter  ? 

Val.  How  now,  sir  !  what  are  you  reasoning  with 
yourself  7 

Speed.  Nay,  I  was  rhyming :  'tis  you  that  have 
the  reason. 

Val.  To  do  what  ? 

Speed.  To  be  a  spokesman  from  madam  Silvia. 

Val.  To  whom  ? 

Speed.  To  yourself:  Why,  she  woos  you  by  a 
figure. 

Val.  What  figure  1 

Speed.  By  a  letter,  I  should  say. 

VaL  Why,  she  hath  not  writ  to  me  1 

Speed.  What  need  she,  when  she  hath  made  you 
write  to  yourself  7  Why,  do  you  not  perceive  the 
lest? 

Val.  No.  believe  me. 


so.  n.  or  VERONA.  139 

Speed.  No  believing  you  indeed,  sir  :  But  did  you 
perceive  her  earnest  ? 

Vol.  She  gave  me  none,  except  an  angry  word. 

Speed.  Why,  she  hath  given  you  a  letter. 

Vol.  That's  the  letter  I  writ  to  her  friend. 

Speed.  And  that  letter  hath  she  deliver'd,  and 
there  an  end. 

Vol.  I  would,  it  were  no  worse  ! 

Speed.  I'll  warrant  you,  'tis  as  well : 
"  For  often  have  you  writ  to  her ;  and  she,  in  modesty, 
Or  else  for  want  of  idle  time,  could  not  again  reply ; 
Or  fearing  else  some  messenger,  that  might  her  mind 

discover, 
Herself  hath  taught  her  love  himself  to  write  unto 

her  lover." 

All  this  I  speak  in  print ; 8  for  in  print  I  found  it.  — 
Why  muse  you,  sir  1  'tis  dinner-time. 

Vol.  I  have  din'd. 

Speed.  Ay,  but  hearken,  sir :  though  the  came- 
leon  Love  can  feed  on  the  air,  I  am  one  that  am 
nourish'd  by  my  victuals,  and  would  fain  have 
meat :  O  !  be  not  like  your  mistress  ;  be  moved,  be 
moved.  [Exeunt. 

SCENE   II.    Verona.    A  Room  in  JULIA'S  House. 
Enter  PROTEUS  and  JULIA. 

Pro.    Have  patience,  gentle  Julia.. 
Jul.    I  must,  where  is  no  remedy. 
Pro.    When  possibly  I  can,  I  will  return. 
Jul.  If  you  turn  not,  you  will  return  the  sooner 
Keep  this  remembrance  for  thy  Julia's  sake. 

[Giving  a  ring 

•  That  is,  with  exactness. 


140  TWO    GENTLEMEN  ACT  It 

Pro.  Why,  then  we'll  make  exchange :  heie,  take 

you  this. 

Jul.  And  seal  the  bargain  with  a  holy  kiss.1 
Pro.    Here  is  my  hand  for  my  true  constancy ; 
And  when  that  hour  o'erslips  me  in  the  day, 
Wherein  I  sigh  not,  Julia,  for  thy  sake, 
The  next  ensuing  hour  some  foul  mischance 
Torment  me  for  my  love's  forgetfulness ! 
My  father  stays  my  coming :  answer  not. 
The  tide  is  now :  nay,  not  thy  tide  of  tears ; 
That  tide  will  stay  me  longer  than  I  should. 

[Exit  JULIA, 

Julia,  farewell.  —  What  !  gone  without  a  word  1 
Ay,  so  true  love  should  do  :  it  cannot  speak ; 
For  truth  hath  better  deeds  than  words  to  grace  it. 

Enter  PANTHINO. 

Pant.  Sir  Proteus,  you  are  staid  for. 
Pro.  Go  ;  I  come,  I  come  :  — 
Alas !  this  parting  strikes  poor  lovers  dumb. 

[Exeunt. 

SCENE   IH.     The  same.     A  Street. 
Enter  LAUNCE,  leading  a  dog. 

Laun.  Nay,  'twill  be  this  hour  ere  I  have  done 
weeping :  all  the  kind  of  the  Launces  have  thia 

J  The  ceremonial  of  betrothing,  for  which  a  ritual  was  formerly 
provided,  is  thus  set  down  by  the  Priest  in  Twelfth  Night,  Act  v 
BC.  1 1 

"  A  contract  of  eternal  bond  of  love, 
Confirm'd  by  mutual  joinder  of  your  hands, 
Attested  by  the  holy  close  of  lips, 
Strengthen'd  by  interchangement  of  your  rings ; 
And  all  the  ceremony  of  this  compact 
Seal'd  in  my  function,  by  my  testimony." 

Such  a  "  contract "  was  held  sacred  by  the  Church.  H 


S«J.   Ul.  Of    VERONA.  \  i  I 

very  fault.  I  have  receiv'd  my  proportion,  like  the 
prodigious  son,  and  am  going  with  sir  Proteus  to 
the  Imperial's  court.  I  think,  Crab  my  dog  be  the 
sourest-natur'd  dog  that  lives  :  my  mother  weeping, 
my  father  wailing,  my  sister  crying,  our  maid  howl- 
ing, our  cat  wringing  her  hands,  and  all  our  house 
in  a  great  perplexity,  yet  did  not  this  cruel-hearted 
cur  shed  one  tear :  he  is  a  stone,  a  very  pebble-stone, 
and  has  no  more  pity  in  him  than  a  dog  :  a  Jew 
would  have  wept  to  have  seen  our  parting  :  why, 
my  grandam  having  no  eyes,  look  you,  wept  herself 
blind  at  my  parting.  Nay,  I'll  show  you  the  man- 
ner of  it :  This  shoe  is  my  father ;  —  no,  this  left 
shoe s  is  my  father :  —  no,  no,  this  left  shoe  is  my 
mother; — nay,  that  cannot  be  so  neither:  —  yes, 
it  is  so,  it  is  so  ;  it  hath  the  worser  sole  :  This  shoe, 
with  the  hole  in  it,  is  my  mother  ;  and  this  my  father. 
A  vengeance  on't  !  there  'tis  :  now,  sir,  this  staff  is 
my  sister ;  for,  look  you,  she  is  as  white  as  a  lily, 
and  as  small  as  a  wand  :  this  hat  is  Nan,  our  maid  : 
I  am  the  dog ;  —  no,  the  dog  is  himself,  and  I  am 
the  dog ;  —  O  !  the  dog  is  me,  and  I  am  myself: 
Ay,  so,  so.3  Now  come  I  to  my  father ;  "  Father, 
your  blessing:  "  now  should  not  the  shoe  speak  a 
word  for  weeping :  now  should  I  kiss  my  father  ; 
well,  he  weeps  on.  Now  come  I  to  my  mother :  O, 
that  the  shoe  could  speak  now  like  an  old  woman !  * 

1  This  shows  that  in  the  Poet's  time  each  foot  had  its  sever.il 
shoe ;  which  fashion,  ouce  laid  aside,  has  grown  into  general  use 
again  within  our  recollectioii.  H 

3  Liunce  here  gets  entangled  with  his  own  ingenuity,  and  the 
Poet  probably  did  not  mean  to  extricate  him.  Of  course  com 
oientators  have  taken  care  to  see  him  well  out  of  his  perplexity. 

H. 

*  The  original  here  reads,  like  a  would-woman ;  —  an  evident  cor- 
ruption, which  Pope  altered  to  old  woman,  and  Theobald  to  wood 
teaman,  the  latter  of  which  has  been  adopted  by  most  editors 


142  TWO    GENTLEMEN  ACT  11 

• —  well,  I  kiss  her ;  —  why  there  'tis  ;  here's  my 
mother's  breath  up  and  down.  Now  come  I  to  my 
sister  ;  mark  the  moan  she  makes.  Now  the  dog;  all 
this  while  sheds  not  a  tear,  nor  speaks  a  word  ;  but 
see  how  I  lay  the  dust  with  my  tears. 

Enter  PANTHINO. 

Pan.  Launce,  away,  away,  aboard  !  thy  master 
is  shipp'd,  and  thou  art  to  post  after  with  oars 
What's  the  matter  1  why  weepest  thou,  man  ?  Away, 
ass;  you  will  lose  the  tide,  if  you  tarry  any  longer. 

Laun.  It  is  no  matter  if  the  tied  were  lost ;  for 
it  is  the  unkindest  tied  that  ever  any  man  tied. 

Pan.  What's  the  unkindest  tide  1 

Laun.  Why,  he  that's  tied  here  ;  Crab,  my  dog. 

Pan.  Tut,  man,  I  mean  thou'lt  lose  the  flood  ; 
and,  in  losing  the  flood,  lose  thy  voyage ;  and,  in 
losing  thy  voyage,  lose  thy  master  ;  and,  in  losing 
thy  master,  lose  thy  service  ;  and  in  losing  thy  ser- 
vice, —  Why  dost  thou  stop  my  mouth  ? 

Laun.  For  fear  thou  shouldst  lose  thy  tongue 

Pan.  Where  should  I  lose  my  tongue  1 

Laun.  In  thy  tale. 

Pan.  In  thy  tail  1 

Laun.  Lose  the  tied,  and  the  voyage,  and  the 
master,  and  the  service,  and  the  tide ! 5  Why,  man, 

since  ;  wood  being  the  old  word  for  frantic  or  mad :  so  that  the 
speaker  means  that  his  mother  was  frantic  with  grief  at  parting 
with  so  hopeful  a  son.  The  original  copy  is  without  the  paren- 
thesis ;  nor  will  there  appear  much  need  of  it,  if  we  but  bear  in 
mind  that  Launce  has  reference  to  the  shoe  which  he  has  made 
representative  of  his  mother  :  and  perhaps  the  sense  would  he 
clearer,  if  we  read,  "  O,  mat  the  shoe  could  speak  now,"  &c.  H. 

*  The  first,  tied,  evidently  refers  to  the  dog ;  the  last,  tide,  to 
the  river  :  this  is  plain  from  what  follows,  —  "Why,  man,  if  the 
river  were  dry,"  &c.  In  the  original  tied  and  tide  are  both  spel* 
the  same  way ;  which  renders  the  quibble  more  obvious.  a 


SC.  IV.  uF    VERONA.  143 

if  the  river  \vcie  dry,  I  am  able  to  fill  it  with  my 
tears ;  if  the  wind  were  down,  I  could  drive  the 
boat  with  my  sighs. 

Pan.  Come,  come ;  away,  man :  I  was  sent  to 
call  thee. 

IMWH.  Sir,  call  me  what  thou  darest. 

Pan.    Wilt  thou  go  1 

Laun.  Well,  I  will  go.  [Exeunt. 

SCENE  IV. 
Milan.     A  Room  in  the  DUKE'S  Palace. 

Enter  VALENTINE,  SH.VIA,  THURIO,  and  SPEEI> 

Sil  Servant! 
Vol.  Mistress  ! 

Speed.  Master,  Sir  Thurio  frowns  on  you. 
Val  Ay,  boy ;  it's  for  love. 
Speed.  Not  of  you. 
Val.  Of  my  mistress  then. 
Speed.  'Twere  good  you  knock'd  him. 
Sil.  Servant,  you  are  sad.1 
Val.  Indeed,  madam,  I  seem  so. 
Thu.  Seem  you  that  you  are  not? 
Val.  Haply 2  I  do. 
Thu.  So  do  counterfeits. 
VaL  So  do  you. 

Thu.  What  seem  I  that  I  am  not  ? 
Val   Wise. 

T}M.  What  instance  of  the  contrary  ? 
Val  Your  folly. 
Thu.  And  how  quote  s  you  my  folly  ! 

1  That  is,  you  are  serious.  *  That  ig,  perhaps. 

*  To  quote  is  to  mark,  to  observe.  It  was  formerly  pronounced 
aiid  sometimes  vritten  coate,  from  the  French :  hence  the  quibble 
here  upoii  the  words  quote  and  coat  H 


144  TWO    GENTLEMEN  ACT  IL 

Vol.  I  coat  it  in  your  jerkin. 

Thu,  My  jerkin  is  a  doublet.4 

Vol.  Well,  then,  I'll  double  your  folly. 

Thu.  How? 

Sil.  What !  angry,  Sir  Thurio  ?  do  you  change 
colour  1 

Vol.  Give  him  leave,  madam :  he  is  a  kind  of 
cameleon. 

Thu.  That  hath  more  mind  to  feed  on  your  blood, 
than  live  in  your  air. 

Vol.  You  have  said,  sir. 

77m.  Ay,  sir,  and  done  too,  for  this  time. 

Vol.  I  know  it  well,  sir  :  you  always  end  ere 
you  begin. 

Sil.  A  fine  volley  of  words,  gentlemen,  and 
quickly  shot  off. 

Vol.  'Tis  indeed,  madam ;  we  thank  the  giver. 
t  Sil.  Who  is  that,  servant  ? 

Vol.  Yourself,  sweet  lady ;  for  you  gave  the  fire 
Sir  Thurio  borrows  his  wit  from  your  ladyship's 
looks,  and  spends  what  he  borrows  kindly  in  your 
company. 

Thu.  Sir,  if  you  spend  word  for  word  with  me, 
I  shall  make  your  wit  bankrupt. 

Vol.  I  know  it  well,  sir  :  you  have  an  exchequer 
of  words,  and,  I  think,  no  other  treasure  to  give 
your  followers ;  for  it  appears  by  their  bare  liveries, 
that  they  live  by  your  bare  words. 

Sil.  No  more,  gentlemen,  no  more  :  Here  comes 
my  father. 

*  This  is  much  the  same  as  saying,  in  the  wardrobe  dialect  of 
our  day,  My  coat  is  a  vest.  The  jerkin,  or  jacket,  was  generally 
worn  over  the  doublet ;  but  sometimes  the  latter  was  worn  alone 
and  so  confounded  with  the  former.  Sometimes  both  had  sleeves 
sometimes  neither,  and  in  the  latter  case  sleeves  were  separate 
articles  of  dress.  H 


sc.  nr.  OF  VERONA  145 

Enter  DUKE. 

Duke.  Now,  daughter  Silvia,  you  are  hard  beset 
Sir  Valentine,  your  father's  in  good  health . 
What  say  you  to  a  letter  from  your  friends 
Of  much  good  news  1 

VaL  My  lord,  I  will  be  thankful 

To  any  happy  messenger  from  thence. 

Duke.  Know  you  Don  Antonio,  your  countryman ! 

VaL  Ay,  my  good  lord ;  I  know  the  gentleman 
To  be  of  worth,  and  worthy  estimation, 
And  not  without  desert  so  well  reputed. 

Duke.    Hath  he  not  a  son  1 

Vol.  Ay,  my  good  lord  ;  a  son,  that  well  deservei 
The  honour  and  regard  of  such  a  father 

Duke.  You  know  lam  well  ? 

VaL  I  know  him,  as  myself;  for  from  our  infancy 
We  have  convers'd,  and  spent  our  hours  together  * 
And  though  myself  have  been  an  idle  truant, 
Omitting  the  sweet  benefit  of  time, 
To  clothe  mine  age  with  angel-like  perfection ; 
Yet  hath  Sir  Proteus,  for  that's  his  name, 
Made  use  and  fair  advantage  of  his  days : 
His  years  but  young,  but  his  experience  old  ; 
His  head  unmellow'd,  but  his  judgment  ripe; 
And,  in  a  word,  (for  far  behind  his  worth 
Come  all  the  praises  that  I  now  bestow,) 
He  is  complete  in  feature,6  and  in  mind, 
With  all  good  grace  to  grace  a  gentleman. 

Duke.  Beshrew 6  me,  sir,  but,  if  he  make  this  good, 
He  is  as  worthy  for  an  empress'  love, 

6  Feature  in  the  Poet's  age  was  often  used  for  form  or  person 
in  general.  So  in  Ant.  and  Cleop.  Act  ii.  sc.  5.  "  Report  the 
feature  of  Octavia."  Thus  also  Spenser  :  "  Which  the  fair  feat 
we  of  ner  limbs  did  hide." 

'  A  petty  mode  of  adjuration,  equivalent  to  ill  betide  mn. 


146  TWO    GENTLEMEN  AC1    II. 

As  meet  to  be  an  emperor's  counsellor. 
Well,  sir,  this  gentleman  is  come  to  me 
With  commendation  from  great  potentates  ; 
And  here  he  means  to  spend  Ids  time  a  wliile : 
I  think,  'tis  no  unwelcome  news  to  you. 

Vol.  Should  I  have  wish'd  a  thing,  it  had  been  he. 

Duke.    Welcome    him,   then,  according  to  his 

worth. 

Silvia,  I  speak  to  you  ;  and  you,  Sir  Thurio  :  — 
For  Valentine,  I  need  not  'cite  7  him  to  it : 
I'll  send  him  hither  to  you  presently.  [Exit. 

Vol.  This  is  the  gentleman,  I  told  your  ladyship, 
Had  come  along  with  me,  but  that  his  mistress 
Did  hold  his  eyes  lock'd  in  her  crystal  looks. 

Sil.  Belike,  that  now  she  hath  enfranchis'd  them 
Upon  some  other  pawn  for  fealty. 

Vol.  Nay,  sure,  I  think,  she  holds  them  prisoners 
still. 

SiL  Nay,  then  he  should  be  blind ;  and,  being  blind 
How  could  he  see  his  way  to  seek  out  you  1 

Vol.  Why,  lady,  Love  hath  twenty  pair  of  eyes. 

Thu.  They  say,  that  Love  hath  not  an  eye  at  all 

Vol.  To  see  such  lovers,  Thurio,  as  yourself: 
Upon  a  homely  object  love  can  wink. 

Enter  PROTEUS. 

Sil    Have  done,  have  done :    Here  comes  the 
gentleman.       [Exeunt  THURIO  and  SPEED 
VaL    Welcome,  dear  Proteus  !  —  Mistress,  I  be- 
seech you, 
Confirm  his  welcome  with  some  special  favour. 

Sil.  His  worth  is  warrant  for  his  welcome  hither 
If  this  be  he  you  oft  have  wish'd  to  hear  from. 

7  Cite,  for  incite 


SO     IV.  OF    VERONA.  147 

VdL  Mistress,  it  is :  sweet  lady,  entertain  him 
To  be  my  fellow-servant  to  your  ladyship. 

SiL  Too  low  a  mistress  for  so  high  a  servant. 

Pro.   Not  so,  sweet  lady;  but  too  mean  a  servant 
To  have  a  look  of  such  a  worthy  mistress. 

VaL  Leave  off  discourse  of  disability  :  — 
Sweet  lady,  entertain  him  for  your  servant. 

Pro.  My  duty  will  I  boast  of,  nothing  else. 

SiL  And  duty  never  yet  did  want  his  meed : 
Servant,  you  are  welcome  to  a  worthless  mistress 

Pro.  I'll  die  on  him  that  says  so,  but  yourself. 

SiL  That  you  are  welcome  1 

Pro.  That  you  are  worthless. 

Re-enter  THURIO." 

Thu.    Madam,  my  lord  your  father  would  speak 

with  you. 

SiL  I  wait  upon  his  pleasure  :  Come,  Sir  Thurio, 
Go  with  me.  —  Once  more,  new  servant,  welcome 
I'll  leave  you  to  confer  of  home  affairs ; 
When  you  have  done,  we  look  to  hear  from  you. 
Pro.  We'll  both  attend  upon  your  ladyship. 

[Exeunt  SILVIA  and  THURIO. 
VaL  Now,  tell  me,  how  do  all  from  whence  you 


came 


Pro.  Your  friends  are  well,  and  have  them  much 
commended. 

8  Theobald  put  "  a  servant  "  in  the  place  of  Thurio  here,  keep- 
ing Thurio  or  'he  stage  during  the  preceding  dialogue ;  and  tne 
Change  has  oeer.  received  by  most  editors  since.  The  object  was, 
no  doubt,  to  save  the  Duke  from  employing  Sir  Thurio,  who  is 
suitor  to  his  daughter,  and  the  one  favoured  by  himself,  as  his 
nearer  of  despatches.  It  must  be  owned  that  the  etiquette  of  the 
paiace  does  give  way  a  little  here  to  the  exigencies  of  the  stage, 
which  in  the  Poet's  time  often  had  more  characters  than  perform- 
ers, and  therefore  could  not  always  spare  an  actor  to  serve  merei\ 
as  message-earner.  Nevertheless  we  restore  the  old  order  of  the 


148  TWO    GENTLEMEN  ACT  II, 

Vol.  And  how  do  yours  ? 

Pro.  I  left  them  all  in  health 

Val    How  does  your   lady  1    and  how   thrives 

your  love  1 

Pro.  My  tales  of  love  were  wont  to  weary  you  • 
f  know,  you  joy  not  in  a  love-discourse. 

Val.  Ay,  Proteus,  but  that  life  is  alter'd  now : 
I  have  done  penance  for  contemning  love ; 
Whose  high  imperious  9  thoughts  have  punish'd  me 
With  bitter  fasts,  with  penitential  groans, 
With  nightly  tears,  and  daily  heart-sore  sighs ; 
For,  in  revenge  of  my  contempt  of  love, 
Love  hath  chas'd  sleep  from  rny  enthralled  eyes, 
And  made  them  watchers  of  mine  own  heart's  sorrow 
O  !   gentle  Proteus,  Love's  a  mighty  lord  ; 
And  hath  so  humbled  me,  as,  I  confess, 
There  is  no  woe  10  to  his  correction, 
Nor,  to  his  service,  no  such  joy  on  earth  ! 
Now,  no  discourse,  except  it  be  of  love  ; 
Now  can  I  break  my  fast,  dine,  sup,  and  sleep, 
Upon  the  very  naked  name  of  love. 

Pro.  Enough ;  I  read  your  fortune  in  your  eye 
Was  this  the  idol  that  you  worship  so  1 

Val.  Even  she  ;  and  is  she  not  a  heavenly  saint  1 
Pro.  No  ;  but  she  is  an  eartlily  paragon. 
Val.  Call  her  divine. 

Pro.  I  will  not  flatter  her 

Val.  O  !  flatter  me ;  for  love  delights  in  praises 
Pro.  When  I  was  sick,  you  gave  me  bitter  pills 
And  I  must  minister  the  like  to  you. 

9  That    is,  imperial.     Thus    in    Hamlet:   "Imperious  Caesa 
dead  and  turn'd  to  clay." 

10  That  is.  no  miseiy  compared  to  that  inflicted  by  love;  —  a 
form  of  speech  not  unusal  in  the  old  writers  :  Thus  an  old  ballad 

"  There  is  no  comfort  in  the  world 
To  women  that  are  kind."  H. 


SC    IV.  OF    VERONA.  149 

VaL  Then  speak  the  truth  by  her  :  if  not  divine, 
Yet  let  her  be  a  principality,11 
Sovereign  to  all  the  creatures  on  the  earth. 

Pro.  Except  my  mistress. 

VaL  Sweet,  except  not  any, 

Except  thou  wilt  except  against  my  love. 

Pro.  Have  I  not  reason  to  prefer  mine  own  1 

VaL  And  I  will  help  thee  to  prefer  her,  too : 
She  shall  be  dignified  with  this  high  honour,  — 
To  bear  my  lady's  train  ;  lest  the  base  earth 
Should  from  her  vesture  chance  to  steal  a  kiss, 
And,  of  so  great  a  favour  growing  proud, 
Disdain  to  root  the  summer-swelling  flower, 
And  make  rough  winter  everlastingly. 

Pro.  Why,  Valentine,  what  braggardism  is  this  ? 

VaL  Pardon  me,  Proteus :  all  I  can,  is  nothing 
To  her,  whose  worth  makes  other  worth  as  nothing. 
She  is  alone. 

Pro.  Then,  —  let  her  alone. 

Val.  Not  for  the  world :   why,  man,  she  is  mine 

own ; 

And  I  as  rich  in  having  such  a  jewel, 
As  twenty  seas,  if  all  their  sand  were  pearl, 
The  water  nectar,  and  the  rocks  pure  gold. 
Forgive  me,  that  I  do  not  dream  on  thee, 
Because  thou  seest  me  dote  upon  my  love. 
My  foolish  rival,  that  her  father  likes, 
Only  for  his  possessions  are  so  huge, 
Is  gone  with  her  along  ;  and  I  must  after, 
For  love,  thou  know'st,  is  full  of  jealousy. 

Pro.  But  she  loves  you  1 

VaL  Ay,  and  we  are  betroth'd; 

11  A  principality  is  an  angel  of  the  highest  order,  and  there- 
fore next  to  divine.  Speak  the  truth  by  her, — that  is,  speak  th» 
truth  o/her  ;  another  obsolete  use  of  a  preposition.  H. 


150  TWO    GENTLEMEN  ACT  II 

Nay,  more,  our  marriage  hour, 
With  all  the  cunning  manner  of  our  flight, 
Determin'd  of:  how  I  must  climb  her  window, 
The  ladder  made  of  cords,  and  all  the  means 
Plotted,  and  'greed  on,  for  my  happiness, 
flood  Proteus,  go  with  me  to  my  chamber, 
In  these  affairs  to  aid  me  with  thy  counsel. 

Pro.  Go  on  before  ;  I  shall  inquire  you  forth  . 
f  must  unto  the  road,12  to  disembark 
Some  necessaries  that  I  needs  must  use ; 
And  then  I'll  presently  attend  you. 

Vol.  Will  you  make  haste  1 

Pro.   I  will. —  [Exit  VALENTINE 

Even  as  one  heat  another  heat  expels, 
Or  as  one  nail  by  strength  drives  out  another, 
So  the  remembrance  of  my  former  love 
Is  by  a  newer  object  quite  forgotten. 
Is  it  mine  eye,13  or  Valentinus'  praise, 
Her  true  perfection,  or  my  false  transgression, 
That  makes  me,  reasonless,  to  reason  thus  1 
She's  fair ;  and  so  is  Julia,  that  I  love  ;  — 
That  I  did  love,  for  now  my  love  is  thaw'd ; 
Which,  like  a  waxen  image  'gainst  a  fire,14 


l*  That  is,  the  haven  where  the  ships  lie  at  anchor. 

13  The    original   has,    "  It    is    mine,  or  Valentine's    praise  ?  *' 
where  the  latter  end,  the  mark,  1,  seems  to  forget  the  beginning, 
It  is.     Mine  eye  is  Warburton's   emendation  ;  and  the  pointing 
itself  suggests  the  transposition  of  It  is.     Mr.  Collier  thinks  the 
true  reading  may  have  been  mine  eyen,  corrupted,  as  it  might  easily 
be,  by  the  printer  into  mine.     Malone's  reading,  Is  it  her  mien 
which  is  the  one  generally  followed,  seems  something  ajar  with 
the  context.     That  the  name  should  here  be  Valentin?/,?,  is  prob- 
able, because  the  verse  requires  it,  and  from  its  having  been  be 
fore  used  in  that  form,  Act  i.  sc.  3.  H. 

14  It  was    anciently  supposed   that  if  a  witch  made  a  waxen 
image  of  any  one  she  wished  to  destroy  01   torment,  and  hung  il 
by  the  fire,  as  the  image  wasted  away  the  original  would  do  so 
too.     Hence  the  allusion  in  the  text.  u 


*c.  v.  UK  VF:RONA.  151 

Bcurs  no  impression  of  the  tiling  it  was. 

Methinks,  my  zeal  to  Valentine  is  cold  ; 

And  that  I  love  him  not,  as  I  was  wont : 

O  !  but  I  love  his  lady  too,  too  much  ; 

And  that's  the  reason  T  love  him  so  little. 

How  shall  I  dote  on  her  with  more  advice, 

That  thus  without  advice  begin  to  love  her ! 

'Tis  but  her  picture  I  have  yet  beheld,15 

And  that  hath  da/zled  16  my  reason's  light ; 

But  when  I  look  on  her  perfections, 

There  is  no  reason  17  but  I  shall  be  blind. 

If  1  can  check  my  erring  love,  I  will ; 

If  not,  to  compass  her  I'll  use  my  skill.  \E%it. 

SCENE   V.     The  same.     A  Street. 

Enter  SPEED  and  LAUNCE. 

Speed.  Launce  !  by  mine  honesty,  welcome  to 
Milan ! 

Laun.  Forswear  not  thyself,  sweet  youth  ;  for  J 
am  not  welcome.  I  reckon  this  always  —  that  a 
man  is  never  undone,  till  he  be  hang'd;  nor  never 
welcome  to  a  place,  till  some  certain  shot  be  paid, 
and  the  hostess  say,  welcome. 

Speed.  Come  on,  you  madcap !  I'll  to  the  ale- 
house with  you  presently  ;  where  for  one  shot  of 

15  Dr.  Johnson  censures  the  Poet  for  making  Proteus  say  ht> 
hns  hut  seen  the  "  picture  "  of  Silvia,  when  he  has  just  been  talk- 
ing with  the  lady  herself.  The  great  Doctor  was  not  great  eiiousrb 
to  catch  Shakespeare  so,  and  in  this  case  he  made  a  blunder,  in- 
stead of  finding  one.  Proteus  wants  to  get  deeper  in  love  with 
Silvia,  and  so  resorts  to  the  argument,  that  the  little  he  has  seen 
of  her  is  as  though  he  had  but  seen  her  picture.  Tho  figure  i> 
not  more  apt  for  his  purpose  than  beautiful  in  itself.  Advice,  11 
the  two  lines  above,  is  used  in  the  sense  of  acquaintance.  H 

"  Dazzled  is  used  as  a  trisyllable. 

'"  Reason  is  here  used  iu  the  sense  of  doubt.  u 


IrV-J  TWO    GENTLEMEN  ACT  II 

five  pence  thou  shalt  have  five  thousand  welcomes. 
But,  sirrah,  how  did  thy  master  part  with  madam 
Julia? 

Lami.  Marry,  after  they  clos'd  in  earnest,  they 
parted  very  fairly  in  jest. 

Speed.  But  shall  she  marry  him  ? 

Latin.  No. 

Speed.  How  then  1    Shall  he  marry  her  1 

Laun.  No,  neither. 

Speed.   What,  are  they  broken  1 

Laun.  No,  they  are  both  as  whole  as  a  fish. 

Speed*  Why,  then,  how  stands  the  matter  with 
them  1 

Latin.  Marry,  thus  :  when  it  stands  well  with 
him,  it  stands  well  with  her. 

Speed.  What  an  ass  art  thou  !  I  understand  thee 
not. 

Laun.  What  a  block  art  thou,  that  thou  canst 
not !  My  staff  understands  me. 

Speed.  What  thou  say'st  1 

Laun.  Ay,  and  what  1  do  too  :  look  thee  ;  I'll 
but  lean,  and  my  staff  understands  me. 

Speed.  It  stands  under  thee,  indeed. 

Laun.  Why,  stand-under  and  under-stand  is  all 
one. 

Speed.  But  tell  me  true,  will't  be  a  match  1 

Laun.  Ask  my  dog :  if  he  say  ay,  it  will ;  if 
he  say  no,  it  will ;  if  he  shake  liis  tail,  and  saj 
nothing,  it  will. 

Speed.  The  conclusion  is,  then,  that  it  will. 

Laun.  Thou  shalt  never  get  such  a  secret  from 
me,  but  by  a  parable. 

Speed.  'Tis  well  that  I  get  it  so.  But,  Launce, 
how  say'st  thou,1  that  my  master  is  become  a  no- 
table lover  1 

1  That  is,  what  say'st  thou  to  this. 


5C.  VI.  OF    VERONA.  ISA 

Laun.  I  never  knew  him  otherwise. 

Speed,  Than  how  1 

Laun.  A  notable  lubber,  as  thou  reportest  him 
to  be? 

Speed.  Why,  thou  whoreson  ass !  thou  mistak'st 
me. 

Laun.  Why,  fool,  I  meant  not  thee  ;  I  meant 
thy  master. 

Speed.  I  tell  thee,  my  master  is  become  a  hot  lover. 

Laun.  Why,  I  tell  thee,  1  care  not  though  he  burn 
himself  in  love.  If  thou  wilt  go  Avith  me  to  the  ale- 
house, so  ;  if  not,  thou  art  a  Hebrew,  a  Jew,  and 
not  worth  the  name  of  a  Christian. 

Speed.  Why? 

Laun.  Because  thou  hast  not  so  much  charity  in 
thee,  as  to  go  to  the  ale  with  a  Christian.2  Wilt 
thou  go  ? 

Speed.  At  thy  service.  [Exeunt. 

SCENE  VL 

The  same.     An  Apartment  in  the  Palace 

Enter  PROTEUS. 

Pro.  To  leave  my  Julia,  shall  I  be  forsworn , 
To  love  fair  Silvia,  shall  I  be  forsworn  ; 
To  wrong  my  friend,  I  shall  be  much  forsworn ; 
And  even  that  power,  wliich  gave  me  first  my  oath 
Provokes  me  to  this  threefold  perjury. 
Love  bade  me  swear,  and  love  bids  me  forswear 

*  The  festivals  of  the  Church  were  often  celebrated  with  merry 
-nakings,  of  which  ale-drinking  formed  a  part :  hence  they  were 
called  "  Ales,"  and  "  Church  Ales."     Before  the  days  of  Puritan- 
ism, of  course  none  but  Jews  would  refuse  "  la  go  tc  the  Ale 
•ith  a  Christian."     Launce  is  quibbling  still,  a*  usual.  fct. 


54  TWO    GENTLEMEN  ACT  II- 

0  sweet -suggesting  '  love  !   if  thou  hast  sinn'd. 
Teach  me,  thy  tempted  subject,  to  excuse  it. 
At  first  I  did  adore  a  twinkling  star, 

But  now  I  worship  a  celestial  sun. 

Unheedful  vows  may  heedfully  be  broken ; 

And  he  wants  wit,  that  wants  resolved  will 

To  learn  his  wit  to  exchange  the  bad  for  better.  — 

Fie,  fie,  unreverend  tongue !  to  call  her  bad, 

Whose  sovereignty  so  oft  thou  hast  preferr'd 

With  twenty  thousand  soul-confirming  oaths. 

1  cannot  leave  to  love,  and  yet  I  do ; 

But  there  I  leave  to  love,  where  1  should  love. 

Julia  I  lose,  and  Valentine  I  lose : 

If  I  keep  them,  I  needs  must  lose  myself; 

If  I  lose  them,  thus  find  I  by  their  loss, 

For  Valentine,  myself;   for  Julia,  Silvia. 

I  to  myself  am  dearer  than  a  friend  ; 

For  love  is  still  most  precious  in  itself: 

And  Silvia,  (witness  heaven,  that  made  her  fair  !) 

Shows  Julia  but  a  swarthy  Ethiope. 

I  will  forget  that  Julia  is  alive, 

Remembering  that  my  love  to  her  is  dead ; 

And  Valentine  I'll  hold  an  enemy, 

Aiming  at  Silvia  as  a  sweeter  friend. 

I  cannot  now  prove  constant  to  myself, 

Without  some  treachery  us'd  to  Valentine  :  — 

This  night,  he  meaneth  with  a  corded  ladder 

To  climb  celestial  Silvia's  chamber- window ; 

Myself  in  counsel,  his  competitor  : 2 

1  That  is,  sweetly-tempting.  To  suggest,  in  the  language  of  oui 
ancestors,  was  to  tempt. 

*  Competitor  here  means  confederate,  assistant,  partner.  Tbuf 
ui  Ant.  Cleop.  Act  v.  sc.  1 : 

"  That  thou  my  brother,  my  competitor 
In  top  of  all  design,  my  mate  in  empire, 
Friend  and  companion  in  the  front  of  war." 


M:.  Vll.  OF    VERONA.  155 

Now  presently  I'll  give  her  father  notice 

Of  their  disguising,  and  pretended  flight ; 3 

Who,  all  enrag'd,  will  banish  Valentine ; 

For  Thurio,  he  intends,  shall  wed  his  daughter: 

But,  Valentine  being  gone,  I'll  quickly  cross, 

By  some  sly  trick,  blunt  Thurio's  dull  proceeding. 

Love,  lend  me  wings  to  make  my  purpose  swift, 

As  thou  hast  lent  me  wit  to  plot  this  drift  !     [Exit 

SCENE  VH. 
Verona.     A  Room  in  JULIA'S  House. 

Enter  JULIA  and  LUCETTA. 

JuL  Counsel,  Lucetta ;  gentle  girl,  assist  me ! 
And,  even  in  kind  love,  I  do  conjure  thee,  — 
Who  art  the  table  wherein  all  my  thoughts 
Are  visibly  character'd  and  engrav'd,1  — 
To  lesson  me  ;  and  tell  me  some  good  mean, 
How,  with  my  honour,  I  may  undertake 
A  journey  to  my  loving  Proteus. 

Luc.  Alas  !   the  way  is  wearisome  and  long. 

JuL  A  true-devoted  pilgrim  is  not  weary 
To  measure  kingdoms  with  his  feeble  steps : f 

*  That  is,  proposed  or  intended  flight.  The  verb  prdtendre  has 
the  same  signification  in  French. 

1  The  tables,  or  table-book,  made  of  ivory  or  slate,  were  used, 
as  they  now  are,  for  noting  down  any  thing  to  be  remembered. 
Thus  the  well-known  lines  in  Hamlet,  Act  i.  sc.  5 : 

"  My  tables,  —  meet  it  is,  I  set  it  down, 
That  one  may  smile,  and  smile,  and  be  a  villain."        H. 

"  An  allusion  to  the  pilgrimages  formerly  made  by  religious 
enthusiasts,  —  who,  like  Julia,  loved  mu.ch,  but  not  wisely,— 
often  to  Rome,  Compostella,  and  Jerusalem,  but  oftener  still  to 
"  the  House  of  our  Lady  at  Loretto."  In  that  age.  when  there 
were  few  roads  and  many  robbers,  to  go  afoot  and  alone  through 
nil  the  pains  and  perils  of  a  passage  from  England  to  either  of 


156  TWO    GENTLEMEN  ACT  11 

Much  less  shall  she,  that  hath  love's  wings  to  fly ; 
And  when  the  flight  is  made  to  one  so  dear, 
Of  such  divine  perfection,  as  Sir  Proteus. 

Luc.  Better  forbear,  till  Proteus  make  return. 

Jul  O !  know'st  thou  not,  his  looks  are  my  soul's 

food? 

Pity  the  dearth  that  I  have  pined  in, 
By  longing  for  that  food  so  long  a  time. 
Didst  thou  but  know  the  inly  touch  of  love, 
Thou  wouldst  as  soon  go  kindle  fire  with  snow, 
As  seek  to  quench  the  fire  of  love  with  words. 

Luc.  I  do  not  seek  to  quench  your  love's  hot  fire. 
But  qualify  the  fire's  extreme  rage, 
Lest  it  should  burn  above  the  bounds  of  reason. 

Jul.  The  more  thou  damm'st  it  up,  the  more  it 

burns  : 

The  current,  that  with  gentle  murmur  glides, 
Thou  know'st,  being  stopp'd,  impatiently  doth  rage 
But,  when  his  fair  course  is  not  hindered, 
He  makes  sweet  music  with  the  enamel'd  stones, 
Giving  a  gentle  kiss  to  every  sedge 
He  overtaketh  in  his  pilgrimage  ; 
And  so  by  many  winding  nooks  he  strays 
With  willing  sport  to  the  wild  ocean. 
Then  let  me  go,  and  hinder  not  my  course  : 
I'll  be  as  patient  as  a  gentle  stream, 
And  make  a  pastime  of  each  weary  step, 
Till  the  last  step  have  brought  me  to  my  love  , 
And  there  I'll  rest,  as,  after  much  turmoil, 
A  blessed  soul  doth  in  Elysium. 

these  shrines,  was  deemed  proof  that  the  person  was  thoroughly 
in  earnest.  The  Santa  £asa  at  Loretto  was  supposed  to  be  the 
house  in  which  the  Blessed  Virgin  was  born,  it  having  been  super 
naturally  transported  from  Galilee  to  Italy,  and  placed  in  a  wood 
at  midnight ;  which  was  the  cause  of  so  many  more  pilgrimage* 
being  made  to  that  place.  H. 


SC.   VII.  OF    VERONA.  157 

Luc.  But  in  what  habit  will  you  go  along  ? 

Jul.  Not  like  a  woman ;  for  I  would  prevent 
The  loose  encounters  of  lascivious  men  : 
Gentle  Lucetta,  fit  me  with  such  weeds 
As  may  beseem  some  well  reputed  page. 

Luc.  Why,  then  your  ladyship  must  cut  your  hair. 

Jul.  No,  girl ;  I'll  knit  it  up  in  silken  strings, 
With  twenty  odd-conceited  true-love  knots  : 
To  be  fantastic  may  become  a  youth 
Of  greater  time  than  I  shall  show  to  be. 

Luc.  What   fashion,  madam,  shall  I  make  your 
breeches  ? 

Jul.  That  fits  as  well  as  —  "  tell  me,  good  my 

lord, 

What  compass  will  you  wear  your  farthingale  ?  " 
Why,  even  what  fashion  thou  best  lik'st,  Lucetta. 

Luc.  You  must  needs  have  them  with  a  codpiece 
madam. 

Jul.  Out,  out,  Lucetta  !  that  will  be  ill-favour'd. 

Luc.    A  round  hose,  madam,  now's  not  worth 

a  pin, 
Unless  you  have  a  codpiece  to  stick  pins  on. 

Jul.  Lucetta,  as  thou  lov'st  me,  let  me  have 
What  thou  think'st  meet,  and  is  most  mannerly. 
But  tell  me,  wench,  how  will  the  world  repute  me 
For  undertaking  so  unstaid  a  journey  ? 
[  fear  me,  it  will  make  me  scandaliz'd. 

Luc.  If  you  think  so,  then  stay  at  home,  and  go  not 

Jul.  Nay,  that  I  will  not. 

Luc.  Then  never  dream  on  infamy,  but  go. 
If  Proteus  like  your  journey,  when  you  come, 
No  matter  who's  displeas'd,  when  you  are  gone : 
I  fear  me,  he  will  scarce  be  pleas'd  withal. 

Jul.  That  is  the  least,  Lucetta,  of  my  fear: 
A  thousand  oaths,  an  ocean  of  his  tears, 


158  TWO    GENTLEMEN  ACT  11. 

And  instances  of  infinite  of  love,3 
Warrant  me  welcome  to  my  Proteus. 

Luc.  All  these  are  servants  to  deceitful  men. 

JuL  Base  men,  that  use  them  to  so  base  effect ! 
But  truer  stars  did  govern  Proteus'  birth : 
His  words  are  bonds,  his  oaths  are  oracles ; 
His  love  sincere,  his  thoughts  immaculate ; 
His  tears,  pure  messengers  sent  from  his  heart ; 
His  heart  as  far  from  fraud  as  heaven  from  earth. 

Luc.    Pray  heaven  he  prove  so,  when  you  come 
to  him  ! 

JuL    Now,  as  thou  lov'st  me,  do  him  not  that 

wrong, 

To  bear  a  hard  opinion  of  his  truth : 
Only  deserve  my  love  by  loving  him  ; 
And  presently  go  with  me  to  my  chamber, 
To  take  a  note  of  what  I  stand  in  need  of, 
To  furnish  me  upon  my  longing  journey.4 
All  that  is  mine  I  leave  at  thy  dispose, 
My  goods,  my  lands,  my  reputation ; 
Only,  in  lieu  thereof,5  despatch  me  hence 

'  Infinite  is  here  used  for  infinity.  So  in  Much  Ado  Abou 
Nothing  we  find  "  the  infinite  of  thought ; "  and  Chaucer  has  "  al- 
though the  life  of  it  be  stretched  with  infinite  of  time."  The  read- 
ing is  that  of  the  first  folio  :  the  second  has  "  instances  as  infinite 
of  love,"  which  is  adopted  by  Mr.  Collier.  But  the  former,  be- 
sides having  better  authority,  seems  better  in  itself.  H 

4  That  is,  the  journey  that  I  long  to  be  making ;  or,  it  way  be, 
the  journey  that  I  shall  make  with  continual  longing  to  reach  the 
end  of  it.  H. 

*  That  is,  in  consideration  thereof.  So  in  The  Tempest,  Act  i. 
•c.  J :  "  That  he  in  lieu  o'  the  premises,"  &.c.  This  use  of  liev 
is  not  uncommon  in  the  old  writers.  Thus  in  Hooker  :  "  But  be 
it  that  God  of  his  great  liberality  had  determined  in  lieu  of  man's 
endeavours  to  bestow  the  same,"  &.c.  Eccle.  Pol.  B.  i.  ch.  ». 
aec.  6  ;  and  in  Spenser's  Dedication  of  his  "  Four  Hymns  "  to  tie 
Countesses  of  Cumberland  and  Warwick  :  "  Beseeching  you  to 
accept  this  my  humble  service,  in  lieu  of  tho  great  graces  and 
honourable  favours  which  ye  daily  show  unto  one."  H. 


SC.  VII.  OF    VERONA.  I5U 

Come,  answer  not,  but  to  it  presently  ; 

I  am  impatient  of  my  tarriance.  [Exeunt 


ACT   III. 

SCENE    I. 

Milan.     An  Ante-room  in  the  DUKE'S  Palace 
Enter  DUKE,  THURIO,  and  PROTEUS. 

Duke.  Sir  Thurio,  give  us  leave,  I  pray,  awhile : 
We  have  some  secrets  to  confer  about.  — 

[Exit  THURIO. 
Now,  tell  me,  Proteus,  what's  your  will  with  me  ? 

Pro.  My  gracious  lord,  that  which  I  would  dis- 
cover, 

The  law  of  friendship  bids  me  to  conceal ; 
But,  when  I  call  to  mind  your  gracious  favours 
Done  to  me,  undeserving  as  I  am, 
My  duty  pricks  me  on  to  utter  that 
Which  else  no  worldly  good  should  draw  from  ma 
Know,  worthy  prince,  Sir  Valentine,  my  friend, 
This  night  intends  to  steal  away  your  daughter  j 
Myself  am  one  made  privy  to  the  plot. 
I  know  you  have  determin'd  to  bestow  her 
On  Thurio,  whom  your  gentle  daughter  hates  ; 
And  should  she  thus  be  stolen  uway  from  you, 
It  would  be  much  vexation  to  your  age. 
Thus,  for  my  duty's  sake,  I  rather  chose 
To  cross  my  friend  in  his  intended  drift, 
Than,  by  concealing  it,  heap  on  your  head 
A  pack  of  sorrows,  which  would  press  you  down, 
Being  unprevented,  to  your  timeless  grave. 

Duke    Proteus,  I  thank  thee  for  thine  honest  care 


160  TWO    GENTLEMEN  ACT  ML 

Which  to  requite,  command  me  while  I  live. 
Tliis  love  of  theirs  myself  have  often  seen, 
Haply,  when  they  have  judg'd  me  fast  asleep  ; 
And  oftentimes  have  purpos'd  to  forbid 
Sir  Valentine  her  company,  and  my  court . 
But,  fearing  lest  my  jealous  aim  '  might  err, 
And  so  ui  worthily  disgrace  the  man, 
(A  rashness  that  I  ever  yet  have  shunn'd,) 
I  gave  him  gentle  looks  ;  thereby  to  find 
That  which  thyself  hast  now  disclos'd  to  me. 
And,  that  thou  mayst  perceive  my  fear  of  this, 
Knowing  that  tender  youth  is  soon  suggested,* 
I  nightly  lodge  her  in  an  upper  tower, 
The  key  whereof  myself  have  ever  kept ; 
And  thence  she  cannot  be  convey'd  away. 

Pro.  Know,  noble  lord,  they  have  devis'd  a  mean 
How  he  her  chamber-window  will  ascend, 
And  with  a  corded  ladder  fetch  her  down ; 
For  which  the  youthful  lover  now  is  gone, 
And  this  way  comes  he  with  it  presently ; 
Where,  if  it  please  you,  you  may  intercept  liim 
But,  good  my  lord,  do  it  so  cunningly, 
That  my  discovery  be  not  aimed  at ; 
For  love  of  you,  not  hate  unto  my  friend, 
Hath  made  me  publisher  of  this  pretence.3 

Duke.  Upon  mine  honour,  he  shall  never  know 
That  I  had  any  light  from  thee  of  this. 

Pro.  Adieu,  my  lord  :  Sir  Valentine  is  coming. 

[Exit 
Enter  VALENTINE. 

Duke.  Sir  Valentine,  whither  away  so  fast  ? 
Vol.  Please  it  your  grace,  there  is  a  messenger 

1  That  is,  guess.     In  Romeo  and  Juliet  we  have  i  "  I  aim'd  se 
near  when  I  suppos'd  you  lov'd." 

1  That  is,  tempted.     Vid»  note  1,  Act  ii.  sc.  6. 
•  That  is,  design. 


BC.  I.  OF    VERONA.  161 

That  stays  to  bear  my  letters  to  my  friends, 
And  I  am  going  to  deliver  them. 

Duke.  Be  they  of  much  import  1 

Fov.  The  tenor  of  them  doth  but  signify 
My  health,  and  happy  being  at  your  court. 

Duke.  Nay,  then  no  matter ;  stay  with  me  a  while : 
I  am  to  break  with  thee  of  some  affairs, 
That  touch  me  near,  wherein  thou  must  be  secret. 
*Tis  not  unknown  to  thee,  that  I  have  sought 
To  match  my  friend,  Sir  Thurio,  to  my  daughter. 

Vol.  I  know  it  well,  my  lord  ;  and,  sure,  the  match 
Were  rich  and  honourable  :  besides,  the  gentleman 
Is  full  of  virtue,  bounty,  worth,  and  qualities 
Beseeming  such  a  wife  as  your  fair  daughter  : 
Cannot  your  grace  win  her  to  fancy  him  1 

Duke.   No,  trust  me  :  she  is  peevish,  sullen,  fro 

ward, 

Proud,  disobedient,  stubborn,  lacking  duty; 
Neither  regarding  that  she  is  my  child, 
Nor  fearing  me  as  if  I  were  her  father : 
And,  may  I  say  to  thee,  this  pride  of  hers, 
Upon  advice,  hath  drawn  my  love  from  her ; 
And,  where  4  I  thought  the  remnant  of  mine  age 
Should  have  been  cherish'd  by  her  childlike  duty, 
I  now  am  full  resolv'd  to  take  a  wife, 
And  turn  her  out  to  who  will  take  her  in : 
Then  let  her  beauty  be  her  wedding-dower ; 
For  me  and  my  possessions  she  esteems  not. 

Vol.  What  would  your  grace  have  me  to  do  in 
this? 

Duke.  There  is  a  lady,  sir,  in  Milan,  here, 
Whom  I  affect ;  but  she  is  nice,  and  coy, 
And  nought  esteems  my  aged  eloquence : 
Now,  therefore,  would  I  have  thee  to  my  tutor. 

*    Where  for  whereas,  often  used  by  old  writers 


162  TWO    GENTLEMEN  ACT   III, 

(For  long  agone  I  have  forgot  to  court ; 
Besides,  the  fashion  of  the  time  is  chang  d,) 
How,  and  which  way,  I  may  bestow  myself, 
To  be  regarded  in  her  sun-bright  eye. 

Val.  Win  her  with  gifts,  if  she  respect  not  words 
Dumb  jewels  often,  in  their  silent  kind, 
More  than  quick  words,  do  move  a  woman's  mind 

Duke.  But  she  did  scorn  a  present  that  I  sent  her 

Val.  A  woman  sometimes  scorns  what  best  con- 
tents her : 

Send  her  another ;  never  give  her  o'er ; 
For  scorn  at  first  makes  after-love  the  more. 
If  she  do  frown,  'tis  not  in  hate  of  you, 
But  rather  to  beget  more  love  in  you  : 
[f  she  do  chide,  'tis  not  to  have  you  gone ; 
For  why,  the  fools  are  mad,  if  left  alone. 
Take  no  repulse,  whatever  she  doth  say ; 
For  "  get  you  gone,"  she  doth  not  mean  "  away ;  '* 
Flatter,  and  praise,  commend,  extol  their  graces ; 
Though  ne'er  so  black,  say  they  have  angels'  faces. 
That  man  that  hath  a  tongue,  I  say,  is  no  man, 
If  with  his  tongue  he  cannot  win  a  woman. 

Duke.  But  she  I  mean  is  promis'd  by  her  frienda 
Unto  a  youthful  gentlemen  of  worth, 
And  kept  severely  from  resort  of  men, 
That  no  man  hath  access  by  day  to  her. 

Val.  Why,  then  I  would  resort  to  her  by  night. 

Duke.    Ay,  but  the  doors  be  lock'd,  and  keya 

kept  safe, 
That  no  man  hath  recourse  to  her  by  mgnu 

VaL  What  lets,5  but  one  may  enter  at  her  window  1 

Duke.  Her  chamber  is  aloft,  far  from  the  ground 
And  built  so  shelving  that  one  cannot  climb  it 
Without  apparent  hazard  of  his  life. 

*  That  is,  hinder 


SC .  L  OF    VERONA.  IGfl 

Vol.  Why,  then  a  ladder,  quaintly  made  of  cords, 
To  cast  up  vith  a  pair  of  anchoring  hooks, 
Would  serve  to  scale  another  Hero's  tower, 
So  bold  Leander  would  adventure  it. 

Duke.  Now,  as  thou  art  a  gentleman  of  blood, 
Advise  me  where  I  may  have  such  a  ladder. 

Vol.  When  would  you  use  it  1  pray,  sir,  tell  me 
that. 

Duke.  This  very  night ;  for  Love  is  like  a  cliild. 
That  longs  for  every  thing  that  he  can  come  by. 

Vol.  By  seven  o'clock  I'll  get  you  such  a  ladder 

Duke.  But,  hark  thee  ;  I  will  go  to  her  alone : 
How  shall  I  best  convey  the  ladder  thither  ? 

Vol.  It  will  be  light,  my  lord,  that  you  may  bear  it 
Under  a  cloak  that  is  of  any  length. 

Duke.  A  cloak  as  long  as  thine  will  serve  the  turn  1 

Vol.  Ay,  my  good  lord. 

Duke.  Then  let  me  see  thy  cloak  : 

I'll  get  me  one  of  such  another  length. 

Val.  Why,  any  cloak  will  serve  the  turn,  my  lord. 

Duke.  How  shall  I  fashion  me  to  wear  a  cloak  ?  — 
I  pray  thee,  let  me  feel  thy  cloak  upon  me. — 
What  letter  is  this  same  1    What's  here  1  —  "  To 

Silvia  !  " 

And  here  an  engine  fit  for  my  proceeding  ! 
I'll  be  so  bold  tc  break  the  seal  for  once.     [Reads. 

u  My  thoughts  do  harbour  with  my  Silvia  nightly ; 

And  slaves  tney  are  to  me,  that  send  them  flying : 
O !  could  their  master  come  and  go  as  lightly, 

Himself  would  lodge  where  senseless  they  are  lying. 
My  herald  thoughts  in  thy  pure  bosom  rest  them  ; 
While  I,  their  king,  that  thither  them  importune, 
Do  curse  the  grace  that  with  such  grace  hath  bless'd 

them, 
Because  mvself  do  want  my  servants'  fortune : 


164  TWO    GENTLEMEN  ACT  III 

I  curse  myself,  for  fl  they  are  sent  by  me, 

That  they  should  harbour  where  their  lord  should  be.'* 

What's  here  ? 

"  Silvia,  this  night  I  will  enfranchise  thee . " 

'Tis  so  ;  and  here's  the  ladder  for  the  purpose.  — 
Why,  Phaeton,  (for  thou  art  Merops'  son,) 
Wilt  thou  aspire  to  guide  the  heavenly  car, 
And  with  thy  daring  folly  burn  the  world  ? 
Wilt  thou  reach  stars,  because  they  shine  on  thee  1 
Go,  base  intruder  !  overweening  slave ! 
Bestow  thy  fawning  smiles  on  equal  mates; 
And  think  my  patience,  more  than  thy  desert, 
Is  privilege  for  thy  departure  hence: 
Thank  me  for  this,  more  than  for  all  the  favour* 
Which,  all  too  much,  I  have  bestow'd  on  thee 
But  if  thou  linger  in  my  territories 
Longer  than  swiftest  expedition 
Will  give  thee  time  to  leave  our  royal  court, 
By  heaven,  my  wrath  shall  far  exceed  the  love 
I  ever  bore  my  daughter,  or  thyself. 
Be  gone  !   1  will  not  hear  thy  vain  exc.use ; 
But,  as  thou  lov'st  thy  life,  make  speed  from  hence 

[Exit  DUKE 
Vol.   And  why  not  death,  rather  than  living  tor 

ment  7 

To  die,  is  to  be  banish'd  from  myself; 
And  Silvia  is  myself:  banish'd  from  her, 
Is  self  from  self ;   a  deadly  banishment ! 
What  light  is  light,  if  Silvia  be  not  seen  ? 
What  joy  is  joy,  if  Silvia  be  not  by  ? 
Unless  it  be  to  think  that  she  is  by, 
And  feed  upon  the  shadow  of  perfection.7 

f  That  is,  because. 
And  feed  upon  the  shadow  of  perfection. 

«  Animum  pictura  pascit  inani  "     Virgil. 


SC.  I.  OF    VERONA.  '66 

Except  I  be  by  Silvia  in  the  night, 
There  is  no  music  in  the  nightingale ; 
Unless  I  look  on  Silvia  in  the  day, 
There  is  no  day  for  me  to  look  upon : 
She  is  my  essence ;  and  I  leave  to  be, 
If  I  be  not  by  her  fair  influence 
Foster'd,  illumin'd,  cherish'd,  kept  alive. 
I  fly  not  death,  to  fly  this  deadly  doom: 
Tarry  I  here,  I  but  attend  on  death  ; 
But,  fly  I  hence,  I  fly  away  from  life. 

Enter  PROTEUS  and  LAUNCE. 

Pro.  Run,  boy  ;  run,  run,  and  seek  him  out. 

Laun.  So-ho  !  so-ho  ! 

Pro.  What  seest  thou  1 

Laun.    Him  we  go  to  find :  there's  not  a  hair  • 
on's  head,  but  'tis  a  Valentine. 

Pro.  Valentine  1 

Val  No. 

Pro.  Who  then  ?  his  spirit  ? 

Val  Neither. 

Pro.  What  then  1 

Val.  Nothing. 

Laun.  Can  nothing  speak  1  master,  shall  I  strike  ? 

Pro.  Whom  wouldst  thou  strike  ? 

Laun.  Nothing. 

Pro.  Villain,  forbear ! 

Laun.  Why,  sir,  I'll  strike  nothing :  I  pray  you, — • 

Pro.  Sirrah,  I  say,  forbear.     Friend  Valentine,  a 
word. 

Val.  My  ears  are  stopp'd,  and  cannot  hear  good 

news, 
So  much  of  bad  already  hath  possess'd  them. 

8  That  is,  by  flying,  or  in  flying.     It  is  a  Gallicism. 

9  Launce  is  still  quibbling  :  he  is  running  down  the  hart  he 
slnrted  when  he  first  entered 


1(36  TWO    GENTLEMEN  ACT  III 

Pro.  Then  in  dumb  silence  will  I  bury  mine, 
For  they  are  harsh,  untuneable,  and  bad. 

VaL  Is  Silvia  dead  1 

Pro.  No,  Valentine. 

Vol.  No  Valentine,  indeed,  for  sacred  Silvia !  — 
I  lath  she  forsworn  me  ? 

Pro.     No,  Valentine. 

VaL    No   Valentine,    if   Silvia    have    forsworn 

me  !  — 
What  is  your  news  ? 

Laun.  Sir,  there  is  a  proclamation  that  you  are 
vanish'd. 

Pro.  That  thou  art  banish'd  —  O  !   that  is  the 

news  — 
From  hence,  from  Silvia,  and  fi  >m  me,  thy  friend 

Vol.  O !  I  have  fed  upon  this  woe  already, 
And  now  excess  of  it  will  make  me  surfeit. 
Doth  Silvia  know  that  I  am  banished  ? 

Pro.  Ay,  ay  ;    and  she  hath  offer'd  to  the  doom 
(Which,  unrevers'd,  stands  in  effectual  force) 
A  sea  of  melting  pearl,  which  some  call  tears : 
Those  at  her  father's  churlish  feet  she  tender'd; 
With  them,  upon  her  knees,  her  humble  self; 
Wringing  her  hands,  whose  whiteness  so  became 

them, 

As  if  but  now  they  waxed  pale  for  woe : 
But  neither  bended  knees,  pure  hands  held  up, 
Sad  sighs,  deep  groans,  nor  silver-shedding  tears, 
Could  penetrate  her  uncompassionate  sire  ; 
But  Valentine,  if  he  be  ta'en,  must  die. 
Besides,  her  intercession  chaf 'd  him  so, 
When  she  for  thy  repeal  was  suppliant, 
That  to  close  prison  he  commanded  her, 
With  many  bitter  threats  of  'biding  there. 

VaL  No  more  ;  unless  the  next  word  that  thou 
speak'st 


jC     I.  OF    VERONA.  167 

Have  some  malignant  power  upon  my  life : 
If  so,  I  pray  thee,  breathe  it  in  mine  ear, 
As  ending  anthem  of  my  endless  dolour. 

Pro.  Cease  to  lament  for  that  thou  canst  not  help 
And  study  help  for  that  which  thou  lament'st. 
Time  is  the  nurse  and  breeder  of  all  good. 
Here  if  thou  stay,  thou  canst  not  see  thy  love ; 
Besides,  thy  staying  will  abridge  thy  life. 
Hope  is  a  lover's  staff;  walk  hence  with  that, 
And  manage  it  against  despairing  thoughts. 
Thy  letters  may  be  here,  though  thou  art  hence; 
Which,  being  writ  to  me,  shall  be  deliver'd 
Even  in  the  milk-white  bosom  of  thy  love.10 
The  time  now  serves  not  to  expostulate  : 
Come,  I'll  convey  thee  through  the  city  gate  ; 
And,  ere  I  part  with  thee,  confer  at  large 
Of  all  that  may  concern  thy  love  affairs  : 
As  thou  lov'sj  Silvia,  though  not  for  thyself, 
Regard  thy  danger  and  along  with  me. 

Vol.  I  pray  thee,  Launce,  an  if  thou  seest  my  boy, 
Bid  him  make  haste,  and  meet  me  at  the  north  gate. 

Pro.  Go,  sirrah,  find  him  out.    Come,  Valentine. 

Vol.  O  my  dear  Silvia  !  hapless  Valentine ! 

[Exeunt  VAL.  and  PRO. 

fjaun.  I  am  but  a  fool,  look  you  ;  and  yet  I  ha\  8 
the  wit  to  think  my  master  is  a  kind  of  a  knave  : 
but  that's  all  one,  if  he  be  but  one  knave."  He  lives 

10  So  in  Hamlet :  "  These  to  her  excellent  white  bosom."  To 
understand  this  mode  of  addressing  letters,  it  should  be  known 
that  women  anciently  had  a  pocket  in  the  forepart  of  their  stays, 
in  which  they  carried  not  only  love  letters  and  love  tokens,  but 
even  their  money.  In  many  parts  of  England  rustic  damsels  still 
continue  the  practice.  A  very  old  lady  informed  Mr.  Steevens, 
•hat  when  it  was  the  fashion  to  wear  very  prominent  stays  it  was 
the  custom  for  stratagem  or  gallantry  to  drop  its  literary  favours 
within  the  front  of  them. 

M   But  onie.  knave,  according  to  Dr  Johnson,  here  means,  lui 


l(fc<  TWO    GENTLEMEN  ACT  111 

not  now,  that  knows  me  to  be  in  love  :  yet  I  am  in 
love  ;  but  a  team  of  horse  shall  not  pluck  that  from 
me  ;  nor  who  'tis  I  love,  and  yet  'tis  a  woman  :  but 
what  woman,  I  will  not  tell  myself;  and  yet  'tis  a 
milk-maid  :  yet  'tis  not  a  maid,  for  she  hath  had 
gossips;12  yet  'tis  a  maid,  for  she  is  her  master's 
maid,  and  serves  for  wages.  She  hath  more  quali- 
ties than  a  water  spaniel,  —  which  is  much  in  a 
bare  13  Christian.  Here  is  the  cate-log  [Pulling  out 
a  paper]  of  her  conditions.  "  Imprimis,  She  can 
fetch  and  carry."  Why,  a  horse  can  do  no  more  : 
nay,  a  horse  cannot  fetch,  but  only  carry  ;  there- 
fore is  she  better  than  a  jade.  "  Item,  She  can 
milk  ; "  look  you,  a  sweet  virtue  in  a  maid  with 
clean  hands. 

Enter  SPEED. 

Speed.  How  now,  signior  Launce  ?  what  new» 
with  your  mastership  ] 

Laun.  With  my  master's  ship  ?  why,  it  is  at  sea 

Speed.  Well,  your  old  vice  still  ;  mistake  the 
word  :  What  news  then  in  your  paper  ? 

Laun.  The  blackest  news  that  ever  thou  heard'st. 

Speed.  Why,  man,  how  black  1 

Laun.  Why,  as  black  as  ink. 

Speed.  Let  me  read  them. 

Laun.  Fie  on  thee,  jolt-head  !  thou  can'st  not 
read. 

ante  a  knave,  as  opposed  to  twice  a  knave,  or  a  double  knave 
But  it  seems  more  likely  that  Launce  is  simply  engaged  in  his 
usua.  occupation  of  punning ;  his  sense  being,  "  if  he  be  but  one 
knave,  that's  all  one.  n. 

"  Gossips  not  only  signify  those  who  answer  for  a  child  ID 
baptism,  but  the  tattling  women  who  attend  lyings-ill.  Tne 
quibble  is  evident. 

13  Bare  has  two  senses,  mere  and  naked.  Launce,  quibbling 
on,  uses  it  in  both  senses,  and  opposes  the  naked  person  to  the 
water-spaniel  thickly  covered  with  hair 


SO.   I.  OF    VEKONA.  169 

Speed,  Thou  liest !    I  can. 

Laun.  I  will  try  thee.  Tell  me  this :  Who  be- 
got thee  1 

Speed.  Marry,  the  son  of  my  grandfather. 

Laun.  O  illiterate  loiterer  !  it  was  the  son  of 
thy  grandmother.  This  proves  that  thou  canst  not 
read. 

Speed.  Come,  fool,  come  :  try  me  in  thy  paper. 

Laun.  There ;  and  saint  Nicholas 14  be  thy  speed ! 

Speed.  "  Item,  She  can  milk." 

Laun.  Ay,  that  she  can. 

Speed.  "  Item,  She  brews  good  ale." 

Laun.  And  therefore  comes  the  proverb,  — 
Blessing  of  your  heart,  you  brew  good  ale. 

Speed.  "  Item,  She  can  sew." 

Laun.  That's  as  much  as  to  say,  Can  she  so  1 

Speed.  "  Item,  She  can  knit." 

Laun.  What  need  a  man  care  for  a  stock  with  a 
wench,  when  she  can  knit  him  a  stock.1* 

Speed.  "Item,  She  can  wash  and  scour." 

Laun.  A  special  virtue ;  for  then  she  need  not  be 
wash'd  and  scour'd. 

14  St.  Nicholas  had  many  weighty  cares,  but  was  best  known 
as  the  patron-saint  of  scholars,  in  which  office  he  is  here  invoked. 
He  is  said  to  have  gained  this  honour  by  restoring  to  life  three 
scholars,  whom  a  wicked  host  had  murdered  while  on  their  way 
to  school.  By  the  statutes  of  St.  Paul's  School,  London,  the 
scholars  are  required  to  attend  divine  service  in  the  cathedral  or. 
the  anniversary  of  St.  Nicholas.  The  parish  clerks  of  London, 
probably  because  scholars  were  called  clerks,  formed  themselves 
into  a  guild,  with  this  saint  for  their  patron.  In  King  Henry  1  V. 
thieres  are  called  St.  Nicholas'  clerks  ;  wh«  ther  from  the  similarity 
of  the  names  Nicholas  and  Old  Nick,  or  from  some  similarity  of 
conduct  in  thieves  and  scholars  in  the  old  days  of  learned  beg- 
gary, doth  not  fully  appear.  St.  Nicholas  was  also  the  patron- 
saint  of  Holland  an  I  Russia;  and  Mr.  Verplanck  says,  "he  ha? 
long  been  known  in  Holland  and  New  York  as  the  special  frier  d 
-f  child/en."  B 

11  That  is,  stocking 


I?0  TWO    GENTLEMEN  ACT   III 

Speed.   "  Item,  She  can  spin." 

Latin.   Then  may  I  set  the  world  on  wheels,  when 
she  can  spin  for  her  living. 

Speed.  "  Item,  She  hath  many  nameless  virtues.** 

Laun.  That's  as  much  as  to  say,  bastard  virtues 
that,  indeed,  know  not  their  fathers,  and  therefore 
have  no  names. 

Speed.  "  Here  follow  her  vices." 

Laun.  Close  at  the  heels  of  her  virtues. 

Speed.  "  Item,  She  is  not  to  be  kiss'd  fasting,  in 
respect  of  her  breath." 

Laun.  Well,  that  fault  may  be  mended  with  a 
breakfast :  Read  on. 

Speed.  "  Item,  She  hath  a  sweet  mouth." 18 

Laun.  That  makes  amends  for  her  sour  breath. 

Speed.  "  Item,  She  doth  talk  in  her  sleep." 

Laun.  It's  no  matter  for  that,  so  she  sleep  not  in 
her  talk. 

Speed.  "  Item,  She  is  slow  in  words." 

Laun.  O  villain,  that  set  this  down  among  her 
vices !  To  be  slow  in  words,  is  a  woman's  only  vir 
tue :  I  pray  thee,  out  with't ;  and  place  it  for  het 
chief  virtue. 

Speed.  "  Item,  She  is  proud." 

Laun.  Out  with  that  too :  it  was  Eve's  legacy, 
and  cannot  be  ta'en  from  her. 

Speed.  "  Item,  She  hath  no  teeth." 

Laun.  I  care  not  for  that  neither,  because  I  love 
crusts. 

Speed.  "  Item,  She  is  curst." 

Laun.  Well,  the  best  is,  she  hath  no  teeth  to  bite 

Speed.    "Item,  She  will  often  praise  her  liquor." 

18  A  sweet  mouth  formerly  meant  ti  sweet  tooth,  and  so  wa» 
reckoned  a  vice  :  but  Launce  chooses  to  take  it  literally,  that  he 
may  have  something  to  offset  the  sow  breath.  H. 


sC.   I.  OF    VERONA.  171 

Laun.  If  her  liquor  be  good,  she  shall :  if  she 
will  not,  I  will ;  for  good  things  should  be  praised. 

Speed.  "Item,  She  is  too  liberal."17 

Laun.  Of  her  tongue  she  cannot ;  for  that's  writ 
down  she  is  slow  of:  of  her  purse  she  shall  not ; 
for  that  I'll  keep  shut :  now,  of  another  thing  she 
may  ;  and  that  cannot  I  help.  Well,  proceed. 

Speed.  "  Item,  She  hath  more  hair  than  wit,  and 
more  faults  than  hairs,  and  more  wealth  than  faults." 

Laun.  Stop  there  ;  I'll  have  her :  she  was  mine, 
and  not  mine,  twice  or  thrice  in  that  last  article  : 
Rehearse  that  once  more. 

Speed.  "  Item,  She  hath  more  hair  than  wit,"  — 

Laun.  More  hair  than  wit, — it  may  be ;  I'll  prove 
it :  The  cover  of  the  salt  hides  the  salt,18  and  there- 
fore it  is  more  than  the  salt :  the  hair,  that  covers  the 
wit,  is  more  than  the  wit ;  for  the  greater  hides  the 
•ess.  What's  next  1 

Speed.  —  "  and  more  faults  than  hairs,"  — 

Laun.  Thai's  monstrous :  O,  that  that  were 
out ! 

Speed.    —  «•  and  more  wealth  than  faults." 

Laun.  Why,  that  word  makes  the  faults  gra- 
cious :  Well,  I'll  have  her  ;  and  if  it  be  a  match, 
as  nothing  is  impossible,  — 

Speed.  What  then  1 

17  That  is,  free  beyond  the  allowing^  of  modesty.     Thus  IH 
Othello  Desdemona  says  of  lago  :  "  Is  he  not  a  most  profane  and 
libe^'i,  counsellor?  "      She  will  often  praise  her  liquor ;  —  that  is, 
by  drinking   of  it.     Curst  is   peevish,  scolding.     Thus  in  Tlie 
Taming  of  The  Shrew  one  of  the  persons    calls   Kate  a  curtt 
threw.  H. 

18  The  ancient  English  saltcellar  was  very  different  from  th« 
modern,  being  a  large  piece  of  plate,  generally  much  ornamented, 
with  a  cover  to  keep  the  salt  clean.     There  was  but  one  on  the 
dinner  table,  which  was  placed  near  the  top,  and  those  who  sat 
below  it  wer« .  for  the  most  part,  of  inferior  condition  to  thoM 
who  sat  above  .1. 


172  TWO    GENTLEMEN  ACT   HI 

Loan.  — why,  then  will  I  tell  thee,  —  that  thj 
master  stays  for  thee  at  the  north  gate. 

Speed.  For  me  1 

Latin.  For  thee  1  ay  :  who  art  thou  ?  he  hath 
stay'd  for  a  better  man  than  thee. 

Speed.  And  must  I  go  to  him  ? 

Lftim.  Thou  must  run  to  him,  for  thou  hast  stay'd 
so  long,  that  going  will  scarce  serve  the  turn. 

Speed.  Why  didst  not  tell  me  sooner  ?  'pox  of 
your  love-letters  !  [Exit. 

Loan.  Now  will  he  be  swing'd  for  reading  my 
letter :  An  unmannerly  slave,  that  will  thrust  him- 
self  into  secrets !  I'll  after,  to  rejoice  in  the  boy's 
correction.  [Exit. 

SCENE  n. 

The  same.     A  Room  in  the  DUKE'S  Palace. 
Enter  DUKE  and  THURIO  ;  PROTEUS  behind. 

Duke.  Sir  Thurio,  fear  not,  but  that  she  will  lovw 

you, 
Now  Valentine  is  banish'd  from  her  sight. 

Thu.  Since  his  exile  she  hath  despis'd  me  most  j 
Forsworn  my  company,  and  rail'd  at  me, 
That  I  am  desperate  of  obtaining  her. 

Duke.  This  weak  impress  of  love  is  as  a  figure 
Trenched  '  in  ice  ;  which  with  an  hour's  heat 
Dissolves  to  water,  and  doth  lose  his  form. 
A  little  time  will  melt  her  frozen  thoughts, 
And  worthless  Valentine  shall  be  forgot.  — 
How  now,  Sir  Proteus !     Is  your  countryman, 
According  to  our  proclamation,  gone  1 

Pro.  Gone,  my  good  lord. 

1  That  is,  cut,  carved ;  from  the  Fr  tranchtr. 


SCX   II.  OF    VERONA.  173 

Duke.  My  daughter  takes  his  going  grievously. 

Pro.  A  little  time,  my  lord,  will  kill  that  grief. 

Duke.  So  I  believe  ;  but  Thurio  thinks  not  so.  — 
Proteus,  the  good  conceit  I  hold  of  thee, 
(For  thou  hast  shown  some  sign  of  good  desert,) 
Makes  me  the  better  to  confer  with  thee. 

Pro.  Longer  than  I  prove  loyal  to  your  grace, 
Let  me  not  live  to  look  upon  your  grace. 

Duke.  Thou  know'st  how  willingly  I  would  effect 
The  match  between  Sir  Thurio  and  my  daughter. 

Pro.  I  do,  my  lord. 

Duke.  And  also,  I  think,  thou  art  not  ignorant 
How  she  opposes  her  against  my  will. 

Pro.  She  did,  my  lord,  when  Valentine  was  here 

Duke.  Ay,  and  perversely  she  persevers  so. 
What  might  we  do,  to  make  the  girl  forget 
The  love  of  Valentine,  and  love  Sir  Thurio  ? 

Pro.  The  best  way  is,  to  slander  Valentine 
With  falsehood,  cowardice,  and  poor  descent; 
Three  tilings  that  women  highly  hold  in  hate. 

Duke.  Ay,  but  she'll  think  that  it  is  spoke  in  hate. 

Pro.  Ay,  if  his  enemy  deliver  it : 
Therefore  it  must,  with  circumstance,  be  spoken 
By  one  whom  she  esteemeth  as  his  friend. 

Duke.  Then  you  must  undertake  to  slander  him. 

Pro.  And  that,  my  lord,  I  shall  be  loth  to  do: 
'Tis  an  ill  office  for  a  gentleman ; 
Especially  against  liis  very  2  friend. 

Duke.  Where  your  good  word  cannot  advantage 

him, 

Your  slander  never  can  endamage  him : 
Therefore  the  office  is  indifferent, 
Being  entreated  to  it  by  your  friend. 

*  That   is,  true ;  from  the   Lit.  vents.     Massingei   calls   ona 
nf  his  plays  "  A  Very  Woma* 


IT4  TWO    GENTLEMEN  ACT  III 

Pro.  You  have  prevail'd,  my  lord :  if  I  can  do  it, 
By  aught  that  I  can  speak  in  his  dispraise, 
She  shall  not  long  continue  love  to  him. 
But  say,  this  weed  her  love  from  Valentine, 
[t  follows  not  that  she  will  love  Sir  Thurio. 

Thu.  Therefore,  as  you  unwind  her  love  from  liim, 
Lest  it  should  ravel,  and  be  good  to  none, 
Yon  must  provide  to  bottom  it  on  me  ; 3 
Which  must  be  done,  by  praising  me  as  much 
As  you  in  worth  dispraise  Sir  Valentine. 

Duke.  And,  Proteus,  we  dare  trust  you  in  this 

kind; 

Because  we  know,  on  Valentine's  report, 
You  are  already  love's  firm  votary, 
And  cannot  soon  revolt  and  change  your  mind. 
Upon  this  warrant  shall  you  have  access, 
Where  you  with  Silvia  may  confer  at  large  ; 
For  she  is  lumpish,  heavy,  melancholy, 
And,  for  your  friend's  sake,  will  be  glad  of  you, 
Where  you  may  temper  her,  by  your  persuasion. 
To  hate  young  Valentine,  and  love  my  friend. 

Pro.  As  much  as  I  can  do,  I  will  effect :  — 
But  you,  Sir  Thurio,  are  not  sharp  enough ; 
You  must  lay  lime,4  to  tangle  her  desires, 
By  wailful  sonnets,  whose  composed  rhymes 
Should  be  full  fraught  with  serviceable  vows. 

Duke.  Ay,  much  is  the  force  of  heaven-bred  poesy 

Pro.  Say,  that  upon  the  altar  of  her  beauty 

*  As  you  unwind  her  love  from  him,  make  me  the  bottom  on 
which  you  wind  it.  A  bottom  is  the  housewife's  term  for  that 
upon  which  a  ball  of  yarn  or  thread  is  wound.  Thus  in  Giau- 
ge's  Garden : 

"  A  bottom  for  your  silk,  it  seems, 
My  letters  are  become, 
Which,  oft  with  winding  off  and  on, 
Are  wasted  whole  and  some."  u. 

«  That  is,  birdlime 


SC.  II.  OF    VERONA.  175 

You  sacrifice  your  tears,  your  sighs,  your  heart : 
Write  till  your  ink  be  dry;  and  with  your  tears 
'Moist  it  again  ;  and  frame  some  feeling  line, 
That  may  discover  such  integrity  : ' 
For  Orpheus'  lute  was  strung  with  poet's  sinews; 
Whose  golden  touch  could  soften  steel  and  stones. 
Make  tigers  tame,  and  huge  leviathans 
Forsake  unsounded  deeps  to  dance  on  sands. 
After  your  dire-lamenting  elegies, 
Visit  by  night  your  lady's  chamber  window 
With  some  sweet  consort :  6  to  their  instruments 
Tune  a  deploring  dump ; 7  the  night's  dead  silence 
Will  well  become  such  sweet  complaining  grievance. 
Tliis,  or  else  nothing,  will  inherit  her.8 

Duke.  This  discipline  shows  thou  hast  been  in  love. 

Thu.  And  thy  advice  this  night  I'll  put  in  practice  : 
Therefore,  sweet  Proteus,  my  direction-giver, 
Let  us  into  the  city  presently, 
To  sort 9  some  gentlemen  well  skill'd  in  music  • 
I  have  a  sonnet  that  will  serve  the  turn, 
To  give  the  onset  to  thy  good  advice. 

Duke.  About  it,  gentlemen. 

Pro.  We'll  wait  upon  your  grace  till  after  supper; 
And  afterward  determine  our  proceedings. 

Duke.  Even  now  about  it :  I  will  pardon  you.10 

[Exeunt. 

8  That  is,  sincerity,  such  as  is  shown  by  impassioned  writing. 
Integrity  is  here  used  in  its  original  sense,  —  the  sense  of  entire- 
nest,  or  wholeheartedness.  H. 

'  The  old  copy  has  consort,  which,  according  to  Bullokar  and 
Phillips,  signified  "  a  set  or  company  of  musicians."  If  we  prim 
concert,  as  M alone  would  have  it,  the  relative  pronoun  their  has 
no  correspoL'<4.ent  word. 

'  A  dump  was  the  ancient  term  for  a  mournful  elegy. 

8  To  inherit  is  sometimes  used  by  Shakespeare  for  to  obtain 
possession  of.  Milton  in  Comus  has  disinherit  Chaos,  meaning 
only  to  dispostt  >s  it.  9  To  sort,  tc  cl  oose  out. 

>0  That  '.e    jxcuse  your  attendance  on  me.  R 


176  TWO    GENTLEMEN  ACT  TV 

ACT  IV. 

SCENE   L     A  Forest,  between  Milan  »*d  Verona 

Enter  certain  Outlaws. 

1  Out.  Fellows,  stand  fast :  I  see  a  passenger. 

2  Out.  If  there  be  ten,  shrink  not,  but  down  with 
'em. 

Enter  VALENTINE  and  SPEED. 

3  Out.  Stand,  sir,  and  throw  us  that  you  have 

about  you; 
If  not,  we'll  make  you  sit,  and  rifle  you. 

Speed.  Sir,  we  are  undone !  these  are  the  villains 
that  all  the  travellers  do  fear  so  much. 

Vol.  My  friends,  — 

1  Out.  That's  not  so,  sir :  we  are  your  enemies- 

2  Out.  Peace  !  we'll  hear  him. 

3  Out.  Ay,  by  my  beard,  will  we  ;  for  he  is  a 
proper1  man. 

Vol.  Then  know,  that  I  have  little  wealth  to  lose 
A  man  I  am,  cross'd  with  adversity : 
My  riches  are  these  poor  habiliments, 
Of  which  if  you  should  here  disfurnish  me, 
You  take  the  sum  and  substance  that  I  have. 

2  Out.  Whither  travel  you  1 
Vol.  To  Verona. 

1  Out.  Whence  came  you  ? 
Vol.  From  Milan. 

3  Out.  Have  you  long  sojourn'd  there  ? 

VaL    Some  sixteen  months;  and  longer  might 

have  stay'd, 
If  crooked  fortune  had  not  thwarted  me. 

1  A  proper  man  was  a  ? omely,  tall,  or  well-proportioned  man 


SC.  1.  OF    VERONA.  177 

1  Out.  What !    were  you  banish'd  thence  1 
Vol.  I  was. 

2  Out.  For  what  offence  ? 

Vol.  For  that  which  now  torments  me  to  rehearse  •• 
I  kill'd  a  man,  whose  death  I  much  repent ; 
But  yet  I  slew  him  manfully  in  fight, 
Without  false  vantage,  or  base  treachery. 

1  Out.  Why,  ne'er  repent  it,  if  it  were  done  so . 
But  were  you  banish'd  for  so  small  a  fault  ? 

Vol.  I  was,  and  held  me  glad  of  such  a  doom, 

1  Out.  Have  you  the  tongues  1  * 

VaL  My  youthful  travel  therein  made  me  happy ; 
Or  else  I  had  been  often  miserable. 

3  Out.  By  the  bare   scalp  of  Robin  Hood's  fat 

friar,3 
This  fellow  were  a  king  for  our  wild  faction. 

1  Out.  We'll  have  him :  Sirs,  a  word. 
Speed.  Master,  be  one  of  them : 

It  is  an  honourable  kind  of  thievery. 
Vol.  Peace,  villain  ! 

2  Out.    Tell  us  this:  Have  you  any  thing  to 

take  to  ? 
Vol.  Nothing  but  my  fortune. 

3  Out.  Know,  then,  that  some  of  us  are  gentlemen, 
Such  as  the  fury  of  ungovern'd  youth 

Thrust  from  the  company  of  awful 4  men : 

*  That  is,  do  you  speak  various  languages  ?  H. 

*  Friar  Tuck,  the  chaplain  of  Robin  Hood's  merry  crew  ;  that 
ancient  specimen  of  clerical  baldness  and  plumpness  and  jollity, 
who  figures  so  largely  in  old  ballads  and  in  Ivanhoe,  —  of  whom 
Drayton  says  : 

*•  Of  Tuck,  the  merry  friar,  which  many  a  sermon  made 
Is  praise  of  Robin  Hood,  his  outlaws,  and  his  trade."     H. 

4  That  is,  men  full  of  awe,  or  of  respect  for  just  authority.     So 
in  2  Henry  IV.,  Act  iv.  sc.  1  :  "  We  come  within  our  awful  banks 
a^ain."     No  instance  of  a  similar  use  of  the  word  has  been  found 


ITS  TWO    GENTLEMEN  ACT  I> 

Myself  was  from  Verona  banished, 
For  practising  to  steal  away  a  lady, 
An  heir,  and  near  allied  unto  the  duke. 

2  Out.  And  I  from  Mantua,  for  a  gentleman, 
Whom,  in  my  mood,5  I  stabb'd  unto  the  heart. 

1  Out.    And   I,   for   such   like   petty  crimes  as 

these. 

But  to  the  purpose  ;  —  for  we  cite  our  faults, 
That  they  may  hold  excus'd  our  lawless  li ves ; 
And,  partly,  seeing  you  are  beautify'd 
With  goodly  shape  ;  and  by  your  own  report 
A  linguist,  and  a  man  of  such  perfection, 
As  we  do  in  our  quality  6  much  want ;  — 

2  Out.  Indeed,  because  you  are  a  banish'd  man, 
Therefore,  above  the  rest,  we  parley  to  you  : 

Are  you  content  to  be  our  general  7 

To  make  a  virtue  of  necessity, 

And  live,  as  we  do,  in  this  wilderness  7 

%  Out.  What  say 'st  thou  7  wilt  thou '  be  of  our 

consort  7 

Say  ay,  and  be  the  captain  of  us  all : 
We'll  do  thee  homage,  and  be  rul'd  by  thee, 
Love  thee  as  our  commander  and  our  king. 

1  Out.  But  if  thou  scorn  our  courtesy,  thou  diest. 

2  Out.  Thou  shalt  not  live  to  brag  what  we  have 

offer'd. 

VaL  I  take  your  offer,  and  will  live  with  you, 
Provided  that  you  do  no  outrages 
On  silly  women,  or  poor  passengers. 

3  Out.  No ;  we  detest  such  vile  base  practices. 
Come,  go  with  us :  we'll  bring  thee  to  our  cave, 

oat  of  Shakespeare ;  for  which  cause  some  have  set  it  down  as 
a  misprint  for  lawful.  But  the  word,  as  it  stands,  sounds  to  nt 
Shakespearian.  B. 

*  Mood  is  anger  or  resentment. 

*  That  is   condition,  profession,  occupation. 


*C.  IL  OF   VERONA.  179 

And  show  thce  all  the  treasure  we  have  got ; 
Wliich,  with  ourselves,  all  rest  at  thy  dispose. 

[Exeunt, 

SCENE    II.     Milan.     Court  of  the  Palace. 

Enter  PROTEUS. 

Pro.  Already  have  I  been  false  to  Valentine, 
And  now  I  must  be  as  unjust  to  Thurio. 
Under  the  colour  of  commending  him, 
I  have  access  my  own  love  to  prefer; 
But  Silvia  is  too  fair,  too  true,  too  holy, 
To  be  corrupted  with  my  worthless  gifts. 
When  I  protest  true  loyalty  to  her, 
She  twits  me  with  my  falsehood  to  my  friend; 
When  to  her  beauty  I  commend  my  vows, 
She  bids  me  think  how  I  have  been  forsworn 
In  breaking  faith  with  Julia  whom  I  lov'd : 
And,  notwithstanding  all  her  sudden  quips,1 
The  least  whereof  would  quell  a  lover's  hope, 
Yet,  spaniel-like,  the  more  she  spurns  my  love, 
The  more  it  grows  and  fawneth  on  her  still. 
But  here  comes  Thurio :  now  must  we  to  her  window 
And  give  some  evening  music  to  her  ear. 

Enter  THURIO  and  Musicians. 

Thu.  How  now,  Sir  Proteus  1  are  you  crept  be- 
fore us  ? 

Pro    Ay,  gentle  Thurio  ;  for  you  know  that  love 
Will  creep  in  service  where  it  cannot  go. 

Thu.  Ay,  but  I  hope,  sir,  that  you  love  not  hera 
Pro.  Sir,  but  I  do ;  or  else  I  would  be  hence. 
Thu.  Whom?     Silvia? 

1  Sudden  quips,  hasty,  passionate  reproaches. 


180  TWO    GENTLEMEN  ACT  IT. 

Pro.  Ay,  Silvia,  —  for  your  sake. 
Thu.  I  thank  you  for  your  own.    Now,  gentlemen, 
Let's  tune,  and  to  it  lustily  a  while. 

Enter  Host,  at  a  distance;  and  JULIA,  in  boyys  clothes 

Host.  Now,  my  young  guest !  methinks  you're 
allycholly  :  I  pray  you,  why  is  it  ? 

Jul.  Marry,  mine  host,  because  I  cannot  be  merry. 

Host.  Come,  we'll  have  you  merry  :  I'll  bring 
you  where  you  shall  hear  music,  and  see  the  gen- 
tleman that  you  ask'd  for. 

Jul.  But  shall  I  hear  him  speak  1 

Host.  Ay,  that  you  shall. 

Jul.  That  will  be  music.  [Music  plays 

Host.  Hark!  hark! 

Jul.  Is  he  among  these  1 

Host.  Ay  :  but  peace,  let's  hear  'em. 

Song. 

Who  is  Silvia  ?  what  is  she, 

That  all  our  swains  commend  her  ? 

Holy,  fair,  and  wise  is  she ; 

The  heavens  such  grace  did  lend  hex, 

That  she  might  admired  be. 

Is  she  kind,  as  she  is  fair  ? 

For  beauty  lives  with  kindness : 
Love  doth  to  her  eyes  repair, 

To  help  him  of  his  blindness ; 
And,  being  help'd,  inhabits  there. 

Then  to  Silvia  let  us  sing, 

That  Silvia  is  excelling ; 
She  excels  each  mortal  thing, 

Upon  the  dull  earth  dwelling: 
To  her  let  us  garlands  bring. 


&C.  II,  OF    VERONA.  181 

Host.  How  now !  you  are  sadder  than  you  were 

before  : 
How  do  you,  man  ?  the  music  likes  you  not. 

Jul.  You  mistake :  the  musician  likes  me  not. 

Host.  Why,  my  pretty  youth  1 

Jul.  He  plays  false,  father. 

Host.  How  1   out  of  tune  on  the  strings  ? 

Jul.  Not  so ;  but  yet  so  false  that  he  grieves  my 
very  heart-strings. 

Host.  You  have  a  quick  ear. 

Jul.  Ay,  I  would  I  were  deaf !  it  makes  me  have 
a  slow  heart. 

Host.  I  perceive,  you  delight  not  in  music. 

Jul.  Not  a  whit,  when  it  jars  so. 

Host.  Hark  !  what  fine  change  is  in  the  music ! 

Jul.  Ay ;  that  change  is  the  spite. 

Host.  You  would  have  them  always  play  but  one 
thing  ? 

Jul.  I  would  always  have  one  play  but  one  thing. 
But,  host,  doth  this  Sir  Proteus,  that  we  talk  on, 
often  resort  unto  this  gentlewoman  ? 

Host.  I  tell  you  what  Launce,  his  man,  told  me, 
he  lov'd  her  out  of  all  nick.2 

Jul.  Where  is  Launce  1 

Host.  Gone  to  seek  his  dog;  which,  to-morrow, 
by  his  master's  command,  he  must  carry  for  a 
present  to  his  lady. 

Jul.  Peace !  stand  aside  :  the  company  parts. 

*  That  is,  beyond  all  reckoning.  Accounts  were  formerly  kept 
by  cutting  nicks  or  notches  in  a  tally-stick  Thus  in  an  old  play, 
"  A  Woman  Never  Vexed,"  an  innkeeper  says  :  "  I  have  carried 
the  tallies  at  my  girdle  seven  years  together ;  for  I  did  ever  love 
to  deal  honestly  in  the  nick."  It  is  but  few  years  since  these 
tallies  were  -ised  in  the  English  Exchequer ;  being  laid  aside,  n« 
doubt,  because  the  accounts  grew  to  be  out  of  all  nick.  a 


18*2  TWO    GENTLEMEN  ACT  IV 

Pro.  Sir  Thurio,  fear  not  you  :  T  will  so  plead, 
That  you  shall  say  my  cunning  drift  excels. 
TJiu.  Where  meet  we? 
Pro.  At  saint  Gregory's  well.3 
Tku.  Farewell.         [Exeunt  THU.  and  Musicians 

SILVIA  appear*  above,  at  her  window. 

Pro.  Madam,  good  even  to  your  ladyship. 

SiL  I  thank  you  for  your  music,  gentlemen. 
Who  is  that,  that  spake  1 

Pro.  One,  lady,  if  you  knew  his  pure  heart's  truth, 
You  would  quickly  learn  to  know  liim  by  his  voice. 

SiL  Sir  Proteus,  as  I  take  it. 

Pro.  Sir  Proteus,  gentle  lady,  and  your  servant 

SiL  What  is  your  will  1 

Pro.  That  I  may  compass  yours. 

SiL  You  have  your  wish  :  my  will  is  even  this,  — 
That  presently  you  hie  you  home  to  bed. 
Thou  subtle,  perjur'd,  false,  disloyal  man ! 
Think'st  thou,  I  am  so  shallow,  so  conceitless, 
To  be  seduced  by  thy  flattery, 
That  hast  deceiv'd  so  many  with  thy  vows  ? 
Return,  return,  and  make  thy  love  amends. 
For  me,  —  by  this  pale  queen  of  night  I  swear, 
I  am  so  far  from  granting  thy  request, 
That  I  despise  thee  for  thy  wrongful  suit ; 
And  by  and  by  intend  to  chide  myself, 
Even  for  this  time  1  spend  in  talking  to  thee. 

Pro.  I  grant,  sweet  love,  that  I  did  love  a  lady ; 
But  she  is  dead. 

3  This  was  probably  one  of  the  "  holy  wells  "  to  which  popu- 
lar belief  attributed  supernatural  virtues,  and  which  were  visited 
something  as  our  fashionable  watering-places  are,  but  with  how 
different  feelings  !  The  place  of  St.  Winifred's  well  in  Flintshire 
is  called  Holywell  ;  but  of  course  the  ancient  virtue  has  all  been 
untight ened  out  of  its  waters.  H. 


*C.  II.  OF    VERONA.  183 

Jul.  [Aside.]  'Twere  false,  if  I  should  speak  it ; 
For,  I  am  sure,  she  is  not  buried. 

Sil.  Say  that  she  be  ;  yet  Valentine,  thy  friend. 
Survives ;  to  whom,  thyself  art  witness, 
I  am  betroth'd  :  arid  art  thou  not  asham'd 
To  wrong  liim  with  thy  importunacy  1 

Pro.  I  likewise  hear  that  Valentine  is  dead. 

Sil.  And  so  suppose  am  I ;  for  in  his  grave, 
Assure  thyself,  my  love  is  buried. 

Pro.  Sweet  lady,  let  me  rake  it  from  the  eartlu 

Sil.  Go  to  thy  lady's  grave,  and  call  hers  thence ; 
Or,  at  the  least,  in  hers  sepulchre  thine. 

Jul.   [Aside.']  He  heard  not  that. 

Pro.  Madam,  if  your  heart  be  so  obdurate, 
Vouchsafe  me  yet  your  picture  for  my  love, 
The  picture  that  is  hanging  in  your  chamber , 
To  that  I'll  speak,  to  that  I'll  sigh  and  weep  : 
For,  since  the  substance  of  your  perfect  self 
Is  else  devoted,  I  am  but  a  shadow; 
And  to  your  shadow  will  I  make  true  love. 

Jul.    [Aside.]  If  'twere  a  substance,  you  would, 

sure,  deceive  it, 
And  make  it  but  a  shadow,  as  I  am. 

Sil.  I  am  very  loth  to  be  your  idol,  sir ; 
But,  since  your  falsehood  shall  become  you  well 
To  worship  shadows,  and  adore  false  shapes, 
Send  to  me  in  the  morning  and  I'll  send  it : 
And  so,  good  rest. 

Pro.  As  wretches  have  o'ernight, 

That  wait  for  execution  in  the  morn. 

[Exeunt  PROTEUS  ;  and  SILVIA,  from  above, 

Jul.  Host,  will  you  go  ? 

Host.  By  my  halidom,4  I  was  fast  asleep. 

4  Several  interpretations  have  been  given  of  this  word ;  but  the 
one  offered  by  Nares  seems  the  most  probable.     He  says  it  is 


1 84  TWO    GENTLEMEN  ACT  I* 

JuL  Pray  you,  where  lies  Sir  Proteus? 

Host.  Marry,  at  my  house.  Trust  me,  I  think 
'tis  almost  day. 

Jul.  Not  so ;  but  it  hath  been  the  longest  night 
That  e'er  I  watch'd,  and  the  most  heaviest.5    [Exeunt 

SCENE   HI.     The  same. 

Enter  E  GLAMOUR. 

Egl.  This  is  the  hour  that  madam  Silvia 
Entreated  me  to  call  and  know  her  mind : 
There's  some  great  matter  she'd  employ  me  in. — 
Madam,  madam ! 

SILVIA  appears  above,  at  her  toindow 

Sil.  Who  calls  ? 

Egl.  Your  servant,  and  your  friend ; 
One  that  attends  your  ladyship's  command. 

Sil.  Sir  Eglamour,  a  thousand  times  good  morrow 

Egl.  As  many,  worthy  lady,  to  yourself. 
According  to  your  ladyship's  impose,1 
I  am  thus  early  come,  to  know  what  service 
[t  is  your  pleasure  to  command  me  in. 

Sil.  O  Eglamour,  thou  art  a  gentleman, 
(Think  not  I  flatter,  for  I  swear  I  do  not,) 
Valiant,  wise,  remorseful,2  well  accomplish'd. 
Thou  art  not  ignorant,  what  dear  good-will 

composed  of  holy  and  dom,  like  kingdom  ;  thus  meaning  the  same 
as  faith.  Another  interpretation  makes  it  refer  to  the  Holy 
Dame,  that  is,  the  Virgin  Mother.  A  third  derives  it  from  the 
Saxon  halig,  sacred,  and  dome,  a  house.  H. 

*  The  double  superlative  was  often  used  in  Shakespeare's  time. 
It  occurs  frequently  in  the  Liturgy  of  the  "  Reformed  Catholio 
Church."  H. 

1  Impose  is  injunction,  command  ;  a  task  set  at  college  in  con 
sequence  of  a  fault  is  still  an  imposition. 

1  That  is,  pitiful. 


JJC.  III.  OF    VERONA.  185 

I  bear  unto  the  banish'd  Valentine  ; 

Nor  how  my  father  would  enforce  me  marry 

Vain  Thurio,  whom  my  very  soul  abhorr'd. 

Thyself  hast  lov'd  ;  and  I  have  heard  thee  say, 

No  grief  did  ever  come  so  near  thy  heart, 

As  when*  thy  lady  and  thy  true  love  died, 

Upon  whose  grave  thou  vow'dst  pure  chastity. ' 

Sir  Eglamour,  I  would  to  Valentine, 

To  Mantua,  where,  I  hear,  he  makes  abode ; 

And,  for  the  ways  are  dangerous  to  pass, 

I  do  desire  thy  worthy  company, 

Upon  whose  faith  and  honour  I  repose. 

Urge  not  my  father's  anger,  Eglamour, 

But  think  upon  my  grief,  a  lady's  grief; 

And  on  the  justice  of  my  flying  hence, 

To  keep  me  from  a  most  unholy  match, 

Which  heaven  and  fortune  still  reward  with  plagues. 

I  do  desire  thee,  even  from  a  heart 

As  full  of  sorrows  as  the  sea  of  sands, 

To  bear  me  company,  and  go  with  me ; 

If  not,  to  hide  what  I  have  said  to  thee, 

That  I  may  venture  to  depart  alone. 

EgL  Madam,  I  pity  much  your  grievances ;  * 
Which  since  I  know  they  virtuously  are  plac'd, 
I  give  consent  to  go  along  with  you ; 
Recking  5  as  little  what  betideth  me, 
As  much  I  wish  all  good  befortune  you. 
When  will  you  go  1 

*  It  was  common  in  former  ages  for  widowers  and  widows  to 
make  vows  of  chastity  in  honour  of  their  deceased  wives  or  hus- 
bands This  will  account  for  Silvia's  having  chosen  Sir  Egla- 
mour as  a  person  in  whom  she  could  confide  without  injury  to  her 
character. 

4  In  Shakespeare's  time  griefs  frequently  signified  grievances ; 
and  the  present  instance  shows  that  in  return  grievance  was  some- 
times used  in  the  sense  of  grief. 

8  To  reck  is  to  care  fur.  So  in  Hamlet :  "  And  reckt  not  his 
own  read  " 


180  TWO    GENTLEMEN  ACT  IV 

Sil.  Tliis  evening  coming. 

Egl.  Where  shall  I  meet  you  1 

Sil.  At  friar  Patrick's  cell, 
Where  I  intend  holy  confession. 

Egl.  I  will  not  fail  your  ladyship. 
Good  morrow,  gentle  lady. 

Sil.  Good  morrow,  kind  Sir  Eglamour.    [Exeunt 

SCENE  IV.     The  same. 
Enter  LAUNCE,  with  his  dog. 

When  a  man's  servant  shall  play  the  cur  with 
him,  look  you,  it  goes  hard :  one  that  I  brought  up 
of  a  puppy ;  one  that  I  sav'd  from  drowning,  when 
three  or  four  of  his  blind  brothers  and  sisters  went 
to  it.  I  have  taught  him,  —  even  as  one  would  say 
precisely,  Thus  I  would  teach  a  dog.  I  was  sent 
to  deliver  him,  as  a  present  to  mistress  Silvia,  from 
my  master ;  and  I  came  no  sooner  into  the  dining- 
chamber,  but  he  steps  me  to  her  trencher,1  and  steals 
her  capon's  leg.  O !  'tis  a  foul  tiling,  when  a  cur 
cannot  keep  2  himself  in  all  companies.  I  would 
have,  as  one  should  say,  one  that  takes  upon  him  to 
be  a  dog  indeed,  to  be,  as  it  were,  a  dog  at  all  things 
If  I  had  not  had  more  wit  than  he,  to  take  a  fault  upon 
me  that  he  did,  I  think  verily  he  had  been  hang'd 
t'or't ;  sure  as  I  live,  he  had  suffer'd  for't :  you  shall 
judge.  He  thrusts  me  himself  into  the  company  of 
three  or  four  gentleman-like  dogs,  under  the  duke's 
table :  he  had  not  been  there  (bless  the  mark !)  a 

1  That  the  daughter  of  a  duke  should  eat  from  a  treru.ner,  need 
not  seem  strange,  since  in  the  privy-purse  expenses  of  Henry 
VI  [I.  we  find  the  following  entry  :  "  Item,  payed  to  the  sergeant 
of  the  pantry  for  certain  trenchers  for  the  king,  23s.  6d '  H. 

9  That  is,  restrain. 


-O.   IV.  OF    VERONA.  187 

pissing  while,  but  all  the  chamber  smelt  him.  "  Out 
with  the  dog  !  "  says  one ;  "  What  cur  is  that  ?  '• 
says  another  ;  "  Whip  him  out !  "  says  the  third  ; 
"  Hang  him  up  !  "  says  the  duke.  I,  having  been 
acquainted  with  the  smell  before,  knew  it  was  Crab  ; 
and  goes  me  t3  the  fellow  that  whips  the  dogs: 
"  Friend,"  quoth  I,  "  you  mean  to  whip  the  dog  ?  " 
"  Ay,  marry,  do  I,"  quoth  he.  "  You  do  him  the 
more  wrong,"  quoth  I ;  "  'twas  I  did  the  thing  you 
wot  of."  He  makes  me  no  more  ado,  but  whips  me 
out  of  the  chamber.  How  many  masters  would  do 
this  for  their  servant  ?  Nay,  I'll  be  sworn,  I  have 
sat  in  the  stocks  for  puddings  he  hath  stolen,  other 
wise  lie  had  been  executed :  I  have  stood  on  the 
pillory  for  geese  he  hath  kill'd,  otherwise  he  had 
suffer'd  for't :  thou  think'st  not  of  this  now  !  — 
Nay,  I  remember  the  trick  you  serv'd  me,  when  1 
took  my  leave  of  madam  Silvia.  Did  not  I  bid 
thee  still  mark  me,  and  do  as  I  do  1  When  didst 
thou  see  me  heave  up  my  leg,  and  make  water 
against  a  gentlewoman's  farthingale  ?  didst  thou 
ever  see  me  do  such  a  trick  1 

Enter  PROTEUS  and  JULIA. 

Pro.  Sebastian  is  thy  name  ?   I  like  thee  well, 
Ind  will  employ  thee  in  some  service  presently. 

Jul.  In  what  you  please  :  —  I  will  do  what  I  can, 

Pro.  I  hope  thou  wilt.  —  How  now,  you  whore 
son  peasant !  [  To  LAUNCE 

Vhere  have  you  been  these  two  days  loitering  ? 

Laun.  Marry,  sir,  I  carried  mistress  Silvia  the 
dog  you  bade  me. 

Pro.  And  what  says  she  to  my  little  jewel  ? 

Laun.  Marry,  she  says  your  dog  was  a  cur ;  and 
tells  you  currish  thanks  is  good  enough  for  such  a 
present 


188  TWO    GENTLEMEN  ACT  IV, 

Pro.  But  she  receiv'd  my  dog  ? 

Laun.  No,  indeed,  did  she  not :  here  have  1 
brought  him  back  again. 

Pro.  What !   didst  thou  offer  her  this  from  me  ? 

Laun.  Ay,  sir  :  the  other  squirrel  was  stolen  from 
me  by  the  hangman  boys  in  the  market-place :  and 
then  I  offer'd  her  mine  own  ;  who  is  a  dog  as  big 
as  ten  of  yours,  and  therefore  the  gift  the  greater. 

Pro.  Go,  get  thee  hence,  and  find  my  dog  again, 
Or  ne'er  return  again  into  my  sight. 
Away,  I  say  !     Stay'st  thou  to  vex  me  here  ? 
A  slave,  that  still  an  end  3  turns  me  to  shame. 

[Exit  LAUNCE 

Sebastian,  I  have  entertained  thee, 
Partly,  that  I  have  need  of  such  a  youth, 
That  can  with  some  discretion  do  my  business, 
For  'tis  no  trusting  to  yon  foolish  lout ; 
But,  chiefly,  for  thy  face  and  thy  behaviour, 
Which,  if  my  augury  deceive  me  not, 
Witness  good  bringing  up,  fortune,  and  truth  : 
Therefore  know  thou,  for  this  I  entertain  thee. 
Go  presently,  and  take  this  ring  with  thee; 
Deliver  it  to  madam  Silvia : 
She  lov'd  me  well  deliver'd  it  to  me. 

Jul.  It  seems  you  lov'd  not  her,  to  leave  her  token . 
She's  dead,  belike. 

Pro.  Not  so  :  I  think  she  lives 

Jul.  Alas  ! 

Pro.  Why  dost  thou  cry,  alas  ? 

JuL  I  cannot  choose  but  pity  her. 

3  Still  an  end,  and  most  an  end,  are  vulgar  expressions,  ano 
mean  perpetually,  generally.     See  Gifford's  Massinger,  iv.  282. 
"  Now  help,  good  heaven  !  'tis  such  an  uncouth  thing 
To  be  a  widow  out  of  Term-time  !  I 
Do  feel  such  aguish  qualms,  and  dumps,  and  fits, 
And  shakings  still  an  end.'"  Tlie  Ordinary 


8C.   IV.  OF    VERONA  189 

Pro.  Wherefore  shouldst  thou  pity  her  ? 

Jul.  Because,  methinks,  that  she  lov'd  you  as  well 
As  you  do  love  your  lady  Silvia  : 
She  dreams  on  him  that  has  forgot  her  love ; 
You  dote  on  her  that  cares  not  for  your  love : 
'Tis  pity,  love  should  be  so  contrary ; 
And  thinking  on  it  makes  me  cry,  alas  ! 

Pro.  Well,  give  her  that  ring,  and  therewithal 
This  letter  :  — that's  her  chamber.  —  Tell  my  lady, 
[  claim  the  promise  for  her  heavenly  picture. 
Your  message  done,  hie  home  unto  my  chamber, 
Where  thou  shalt  find  me  sad  and  solitary.      [Exit 

Jul.  How  many  women  would  do  such  a  message  1 
Alas,  poor  Proteus  !  thou  hast  entertain'd 
A  fox  to  be  the  shepherd  of  thy  lambs. 
Alas,  poor  fool !  why  do  I  pity  him 
That  with  his  very  heart  despiseth  me? 
Because  he  loves  her,  he  despiseth  me ; 
Because  I  love  him,  I  must  pity  him. 
This  ring  I  gave  him,  when  he  parted  from  me, 
To  bind  him  to  remember  my  good-will ; 
And  now  am  I  (unhappy  messenger !) 
To  plead  for  that,  which  I  would  not  obtain ; 
To  carry  that  which  I  would  have  refus'd  ; 
To  praise  his  faith  which  I  would  have  disprais'd 
I  am  my  master's  true  confirmed  love  ; 
But  cannot  be  true  servant  to  my  master, 
Unless  I  prove  false  traitor  to  myself. 
Yet  I  will  woo  for  him  ;  but  yet  so  coldly, 
As,  heaven  it  knows,  I  would  not  have  him  speed, 

Enter  SILVIA,  attended. 

Gentlewoman,  good  day  !    I  pray  you,  be  my  mean 
To  bring  me  where  to  speak  with  madam  Silvia. 
SKL  What  would  you  with  her,  if  that  I  be  sho  f 


Ji*0  TWO    GENTLEMEN  ACT  IV 

Jul.  If  you  be  she,  I  do  entreat  your  patience 
To  hear  me  speak  the  message  I  am  sent  on. 

Sil.  From  whom? 

Jul.  From  my  master,  Sir  Proteus,  madam. 

Sil.  O  !  —  he  sends  you  for  a  picture  ? 

Jul.  Ay,  madam. 

Sil.  Ursula,  bring  my  picture  there. 

[Picture  brought 

Go,  give  your  master  this :  tell  him  from  met 
One  Julia,  that  his  changing  thoughts  forget, 
Would  better  fit  his  chamber,  than  tliis  shadow. 

Jul.  Madam,  please  you  peruse  this  letter.— 
Pardon  me,  madam  ;  I  have  unadvis'd 
Deliver'd  you  a  paper  that  I  should  not : 
This  is  the  letter  to  your  ladysliip. 

Sil.  I  pray  thee  let  me  look  on  that  again. 

Jul.  It  may  not  be  :  good  madam,  pardon  me. 

SiL  There,  hold. 

I  will  not  look  upon  your  master's  lines : 
I  know  they  are  stuff'd  with  protestations, 
And  full  of  new-found  oaths ;  which  he  will  break 
As  easily  as  I  do  tear  his  paper. 

Jul.  Madam,  he  sends  your  ladysliip  this  ring. 

Sil.  The  more  shame  for  him  that  he  sends  it  me ; 
For,  I  have  heard  him  say  a  thousand  times, 
His  Julia  gave  it  him  at  his  departure : 
Though  his  false  finger  hath  profan'd  the  ring, 
Mine  shall  not  do  his  Julia  so  much  wrong. 

Jul.  She  thanks  you. 

SiL  What  say'st  thou  1 

Jul.  I  thank  you,  madam,  that  you  tender  her : 
Poor  gentlewoman !  my  master  wrongs  her  much 

SiL  Dost  them  know  her  1 

Jul.  Almost  as  well  as  I  do  know  myself: 
To  thiak  upon  her  woes,  I  do  protest, 
That  I  have  wept  a  hundred  several  times. 


SO.  IV.  OF    VERONA.  191 

SiL  Belike,  she  thinks  that  Proteus  hath  forsook 
her. 

Jul,  I  think  she  doth,  and  that's  her  cause  of  sorrow. 

Sil.  Is  she  not  passing  fair  ? 

Jul.  She  hath  been  fairer,  madam,  than  she  is : 
When  she  did  think  my  master  lov'd  her  well, 
She,  in  my  judgment,  was  as  fair  as  you  ; 
But  since  she  did  neglect  her  looking-glass, 
And  threw  her  sun-expelling  mask  away,4 
The  air  hath  starv'd  the  roses  in  her  cheeks, 
And  pinch'd  the  lily-tincture  of  her  face, 
That  now  she  is  become  as  black  as  I. 

Sil.  How  tall  was  she? 

Jul.  About  my  stature  ;  for,  at  Pentecost, 
When  all  our  pageants  of  delight  were  play'd, 
Our  youth  got  me  to  play  the  woman's  part, 
And  I  was  trimm'd  in  madam  Julia's  gown, 
Which  served  me  as  fit,  by  all  men's  judgments, 
As  if  the  garment  had  been  made  for  me : 
Therefore,  I  know  she  is  about  my  height. 
And  at  that  time  I  made  her  weep  a-good,s 
For  I  did  play  a  lamentable  part : 
Madam,  'twas  Ariadne,  passioning8 
For  Theseus'  perjury,  and  unjust  flight ; 

*  Alluding,  no  doubt,  to  the  custom  thus  noticed  by  Stubbs  in 
his  "  Anatomic  of  Abuses,"  published  in  1595  :  "  When  they  " 
(the  ladies)  "  use  to  ride  abroad,  they  have  masks  or  visors  made 
of  velvet,  wherewith  they  cover  all  their  faces,  having  holes  made 
in  them  against  their  eyes,  whereout  they  look."  ic. 

*  That  is,  in  good  earnest,  heartily.     The  word  is  met  with 
occasionally  in  the  old  writers.     Thus,  in  Tuberville's  Lover,  1567 

"  And  in  her  arms  the  naked  boy  she  strain'd, 
Whereat  the  boy  began  to  strive  a-gocd:" 

and  in  Drayton's  Dowsabel    1593 1 

«  But  then  the  shepherd  pip'd  a-good, 
That  all  his  sheep  forsook  their  food 

To  hear  his  melody."  H. 

*  To  ptusion  was  used  as  a  verb  formerly. 


192  TWO    GENTLEMEN  ACT  IV 

Which  I  so  lively  acted  with  my  tears, 
That  my  poor  mistress,  moved  therewithal, 
Wept  bitterly ;  and  would  I  might  be  dead, 
[f  I  in  thought  felt  not  her  very  sorrow. 

SiL  She  is  beholden  to  thee,  gentle  youth. — 
Alas,  poor  lady !  desolate  and  left  !  — 
I  weep  myself,  to  think  upon  thy  words. 
Here,  youth,  there  is  my  purse :  I  give  thee  this 
For  thy  sweet  mistress'  sake,  because  thou  lov'st  her 
Farewell.  [Exit  SILVIA, 

Jul.  And  she  shall  thank  you  for't,  if  e'er  you 

know  her. — 

A  virtuous  gentlewoman,  mild,  and  beautiful. 
[  hope  my  master's  suit  will  be  but  cold, 
Since  she  respects  my  mistress'  love  so  much. 
Alas,  how  love  can  trifle  with  itself! 
Here  is  her  picture  :  Let  me  see :  I  think, 
If  I  had  such  a  tire,  this  face  of  mine 
Were  full  as  lovely  as  is  this  of  hers  ; 
And  yet  the  painter  flatter'd  her  a  little, 
Unless  I  flatter  with  myself  too  much. 
Her  hair  is  auburn,  mine  is  perfect  -yellow : 
If  that  be  all  the  difference  in  his  love, 
I'll  get  me  such  a  colour'd  periwig.7 
Her  eyes  are  grey  as  glass  ; 8  and  so  are  mine : 

7  False  hair  was  much  worn  by  ladies  in  Shakespeare's  time5 
it  being  then  one  of  the  "  latest  fashions,"  and  induced  by  a  gen- 
eral  desire  to  have  hair  like  the  Queen's.  In  "  Northward  Hoe," 
1607,  is  an  allusion  to  it:  "There  is  a  new  trade  come  up  for 
cast  gentlewomen,  of  periwig-making.  Let  your  wife  set  up  in 
the  Strand."  The  fashion  is  thus  referred  to  in  The  Merchant  of 
Venice : 

"  So  are  those  crisped,  snaky,  golden  locks, 

Which  make  such  wanton  gambols  with  the  wind, 

Upon  supposed  fairness,  often  known 

To  be  the  dowry  of  a  second  head, 

The  scull  that  bred  them  in  the  sepulchre."  H. 

*  The  grey  eyes  of  the  Poet's  time  were  the  same  as  the  bliu 


9C.  IV.  OF    VERONA.  19Q 

Ay,  but  her  forehead's  low,  and  mine's  as  high.* 

What  should  it  be,  that  he  respects  in  her, 

But  I  can  make  respective lo  in  myself, 

If  tliis  fond  love  were  not  a  blinded  god  ? 

Come,  shadow,  come,  and  take  this  shadow  up, 

For  'tis  thy  rival.     O  thou  senseless  form  ! 

Thou  shalt  be  worshipp'd,  kiss'd,  lov'd,  and  ador'd 

And,  were  there  sense  in  tliis  idolatry, 

My  substance  should  be  statue  "  in  thy  stead. 

I'll  use  thee  kindly  for  thy  mistress'  sake, 

That  us'd  me  so  ;  or  else  by  Jove  I  vow, 

I  should  have  scratch'd  out  your  unseeing  eyes, 

To  make  my  master  out  of  love  with  thee.     [Exit 


ACT    V. 

SCENE    I.     The  same.     An  Abbey. 

Enter  EGLAMOTTR. 

Egl.  The  sun  begins  to  gild  the  western  sky ; 
And  now  it  is  about  the  very  hour 

eyes  of  ours.  Glass  was  not  colourless  then  as  we  have  it,  but  of 
a  light-blue  tint.  So  that  eyes  as  grey  as  glass  were  of  the  soft 
azure  or  cerulean,  such  as  usually  go  with  the  auburn  and  yellow 
hair  of  Silvia  and  Julia.  H. 

9  A  high  forehead  was  then  accounted  a  feature  eminently  beau- 
tiful.    Our  author,  in  The  Tempest,  shows  that  low  foreheads  were 
in  disesteem  :  "  apes  with  foreheads  villainous  low." 

10  That  is,  "  What  he  respects  in  her  has  equal  relation  to 
myself."  H. 

11  The  words  statue  and  picture  were  often  used  indiscrim- 
inately.     Thus  Stowe,  speaking  of  Elizabeth's  funeral,  says : 
''  When  they  beheld   her  statue  or  picture  lying  upon  the  coffin, 
there  was  a  general  sighing."    And  in  Massinger's  "City  Madam  " 
Sir  John  Frugal  desires  that  his  daughters  "may  take  leave  of 
their  late  suitors'  statues ; "    and  Luke   answers,   "  There  they 

a. 


194  TWO    GENTLEMEN  ACT  V 

That  Silvia  at  friar  Patrick's  cell  should  meet  mo 
She  will  not  fail ;  for  lovers  break  not  hours, 
Unless  it  be  to  come  before  their  time ; 
So  much  they  spur  their  ex|>edition. 

Enter  SILVIA. 

See,  where  she  comes :   Lady,  a  happy  evening  I 
Sil.  Amen,  amen  !  go  on,  good  Eglamour ' 

Out  at  the  postern  by  the  abbey-wall : 

I  fear  I  am  attended  by  some  spies. 

EgL  Fear  not :  the  forest  is  not  three  leagues  ofl  *, 

If  we  recover  that,  we  are  sure  enough.-       [Exeunt 

SCENE  II. 
The  same.     A  Room  in  the  DUKE'S  Palace 

Enter  THURIO,  PROTEUS,  and  JULIA. 

Thu.  Sir  Proteus,  what  says  Silvia  to  my  suit  f 
Pro.  O,  sir  !  I  find  her  milder  than  she  was ; 
And  yet  she  takes  exceptions  at  your  person. 
Thu.  What !  that  my  leg  is  too  long  ? 
Pro.  No ;  that  it  is  too  little. 
Thu.    I'll  wear  a  boot,  to    make  it  somewha; 

rounder. 
Jul.  [Aside.]  But  love  will  not  be  spurr'd  to  what 

it  loathes.1 

Thu.  What  says  she  to  my  face  ? 
Pro.  She  says  it  is  a  fair  one. 

1  In  all  the  old  copies  this  speech  is  given  to  Protens,  and 
addressed  to  Thurio  ;  which  is  evidently  a  mistake ;  for  as  Pro- 
teus is  bantering  and  playing  upon  Thurio,  to  speak  thus  would 
defeat  his  own  aim.  Boswell  suggested  that  it  should  be  set  down 
to  Julia,  and  as  spoken  aside.  This  correction  seems  the  more 
admissible,  inasmuch  as  a  similar  one  just  below  is  generally  ad- 
mitted. H. 


SC.  II.  OF    VERONA.  I  US 

Thu.  Nay,  then  the  wanton  lies  :  my  face  is  black 
Pro.  But  pearls  are  fair;   and  the  old  saying  is, 
Black  men  are  pearls  in  beauteous  ladies'  eyes. 
Jul.   [Aside.]   'Tis  true ;  such  pearls  as  put  ou 

ladies'  eyes  ; 

Tor  I  had  rather  wink  than  look  on  them. 
Thu.  How  likes  she  my  discourse  ? 
Pro.  Ill,  when  you  talk  of  war. 
Thu.  But  well,  when  I  discourse  of  love  and  peace  1 
Jul.   [Aside.]  But  better,  indeed,  when  you  hold 

your  peace. 

Thu.  What  says  she  to  my  valour  1 
Pro.  O,  sir !  she  makes  no  doubt  of  that. 
JuL   [Aside.]   She  needs  not,  when  she  knows  it 

cowardice. 

Thu.  What  says  she%>  my  birth  ? 
Pro.  That  you  are  well  deriv'd. 
Jul.  [Aside.]   True  ;  from  a  gentleman  to  a  fooL 
Thu.  Considers  she  my  possessions  ? 
Pro.  O  !  ay ;  and  pities  them. 
Thu.  Wherefore? 

Jul.  [Aside.]  That  such  an  ass  should  owe  *  them. 
Pro.  That  they  are  out  by  lease.3 
JuL  Here  comes  the  duke. 

Enter  DUKE. 

Duke.  How  now,  Sir  Proteus !  how  now,  Thurio ! 
Which  of  you  saw  Sir  Eglamour  of  late  ? 
Thu.  Not  I 
Pro.  Nor  I. 
Duke.  Saw  you  my  daughter  ? 

*  That  is,  possess  them,  own  them. 

*  Thurio  of  course  means  his  lands ;  but  Proteus  chooses  to 
take  him  as  referring  to  his  mental  endowments,  which,  he  says 
are  out  by  lease,  that  is,  out  of  his  keeping ;  so  that  he,  lacking 
them,  is  a  dun^e.  H 


196  TWO    GENTLEMEN  4CT  V 

Pro.  Neither. 

Duke.    Why,  then  she's  fled  unto  that  peasant 

Valentine ; 

And  E glamour  is  in  her  company. 
'Tis  true ;  for  friar  Laurence  met  them  both, 
As  he  in  penance  wander'd  through  the  forest : 
Him  he  knew  well,  and  guess'd  that  it  was  she  ; 
But,  being  mask'd,  he  was  not  sure  of  it : 
Besides,  she  did  intend  confession 
At  Patrick's  cell  this  even,  and  there  she  was  not: 
These  likelihoods  confirm  her  flight  from  hence. 
Therefore,  I  pray  you,  stand  not  to  discourse, 
But  mount  you  presently,  and  meet  with  me 
Upon  the  rising  of  the  mountain  foot 
That  leads  towards  Mantua,  whither  they  are  fled : 
Despatch,  sweet  gentlemen}  and  follow  me.     [Exit, 

Thu.  Why,  this  it  is  to  be  a  peevish  4  girl, 
That  flies  her  fortune  when  it  follows  her  : 
£'11  after  ;  more  to  be  reveng'd  on  E  glamour, 
Than  for  the  love  of  reckless 6  Silvia.  [Exit, 

Pro.  And  I  will  follow,  more  for  Silvia's  love, 
Than  hate  of  Eglamour  that  goes  with  her.      [Exit 

Jul.  And  I  will  follow,  more  to  cross  that  love, 
Than  hate  for  Silvia,  that  is  gone  for  love.      [Exit 

SCENE  III.     The  Forest. 

Enter  SILVIA  and  Outlaws. 

Out.  Come,  come ;  be  patient :  we  must  bring 
fou  to  our  captain. 

Sll.  A  thousand  more  mischances  than  this  one 
Have  learn'd  me  how  to  brook  this  patiently. 

2  Out.  Come,  bring  her  away. 

*  Peevish  in  ancient  language  signified  foolish. 
That  is,  cardess,  heedless. 


SC.  IV.  OF    VTERONA.  197 

1  Out.  Where  is  the  gentleman  that  was  with  her  1 

3  Out.  Being  nimble-footed,  he  hath  outrun  us ; 
But  Moses  and  Valerius  follow  liim. 
Go  thou  with  her  to  the  west  end  of  the  wood ; 
There  is  our  captain.     We'll  follow  him  that's  fled : 
The  thicket  is  beset ;  he  cannot  'scape. 

1  Out.  Come,  I  must  bring  you  to  our  captain's 

cave : 

Fear  not ;  he  bears  an  honourable  mind, 
And  will  not  use  a  woman  lawlessly. 

Sil.  O  Valentine,  this  I  endure  for  thee  ! 

[Exeunt 

SCENE    IV.     Another  part  of  the  Forest. 

Enter  VALENTINE. 

Vol.  How  use  doth  breed  a  habit  in  a  man  ! 
These  shadowy,  desert,  unfrequented  woods, 
I  better  brook  than  flourishing  peopled  towns : 
Here  can  I  sit  alone,  unseen  of  any, 
And  to  the  nightingale's  complaining  notes 
Tune  my  distresses,  and  record  '  my  woes. 
O  !  thou  that  dost  inhabit  in  my  breast, 
Leave  not  the  mansion  so  long  tenantless  ; 
Lest,  growing  ruinous,  the  building  fall, 
And  leave  no  memory  of  what  it  was  ! 
Repair  me  with  thy  presence,  Silvia ; 
Thou  gentle  nymph,  cherish  thy  forlorn  swain !  — 
What  hallooing,  and  what  stir,  is  this  to-day  1 
These  are  my  mates,  that  make  their  wills  their  law 
Have  some  unhappy  passenger  in  chase. 

1  To  record  anciently  signified  to  sing.     So  in  Drayton's  EC 
logues  ;  — 

u  Fair  Philomel,  night-music  of  the  spring, 
Sweetly  records  her  tuneful  harmony."  K 


198  TWO    GENTLEMEN  ACT  T 

They  love  me  well ;  yet  I  have  much  to  do 
To  keep  them  from  uncivil  outrages- 
Withdraw  thee,  Valentine :   who's  this  comes  here  1 

[Steps  aside 

Enter  PROTEUS,  SILVIA,  and  JULIA. 

Pro.  Madam,  this  service  I  have  done  for  you, 
(Though  you  respect  not  aught  your  servant  doth,) 
To  hazard  life,  and  rescue  you  from  him 
That  would  have  forc'd  your  honour  and  your  love. 
Vouchsafe  me,  for  my  meed,  but  one  fair  look  ; 
A  smaller  boon  than  this  I  cannot  beg, 
And  less  than  this,  I  am  sure,  you  cannot  give. 

Vol.   [Aside.]   How  like  a  dream  is  this  I  see  and 

hear ! 
Love,  lend  me  patience  to  forbear  a  while. 

Sil.  O !   miserable,  unhappy  that  I  am  ! 

Pro.  Unhappy  were  you,  madam,  ere  I  came  ; 
But  by  my  coming  I  have  made  you  happy. 

Sil.  By  thy  approach  thou  mak'st  me  most  un- 
happy. 

Jul.    [Aside.]    And  me,  when  he  approacheth  to 
your  presence. 

Sil.  Had  I  been  seized  by  a  hungry  lion, 
I  would  have  been  a  breakfast  to  the  beast, 
Rather  than  have  false  Proteus  rescue  me. 

0  !   heaven  be  judge,  how  I  love  Valentine, 
Whose  life's  as  tender  2  to  me  as  my  soul  ; 
And  full  as  much  (for  more  there  cannot  be) 

1  do  detest  false  perjur'd  Proteus : 
Therefore  begone :  solicit  me  no  more. 

Pro.    What  dangerous  action,  stood  it  next   to 

death, 
Would  I  not  undergo  for  one  calm  look  ! 

*  That  is,  as  dear. 


SO.   IV.  OF    VERONA.  l'J9 

O !   'tis  the  curse  in  love,  and  still  approv'd,3 
When  women  cannot  love  where  they're  belov'd. 

Sil.   When  Proteus  catinot  love  where  he's  belov'd. 
Read  over  Julia's  heart,  thy  first  best  love, 
For  whose  dear  sake  thou  didst  then  rend  thy  faith 
Into  a  thousand  oaths ;  and  all  those  oaths 
Descended  into  perjury  to  love  me. 
Thou  hast  no  faith  left  now,  unless  thou  hadst  two, 
And  that's  far  worse  than  none :  better  have  none 
Than  plural  faith,  which  is  too  much  by  one. 
Thou  counterfeit  to  thy  true  friend ! 

Pro.  In  love, 

Who  respects  friend  ? 

Sil.  All  men  but  Proteus. 

Pro.  Nay,  if  the  gentle  spirit  of  moving  words 
Can  no  way  change  you  to  a  milder  form, 
I'll  woo  you  like  a  soldier,  at  arms'  end ; 
And  love  you  'gainst  the  nature  of  love ;  force  you. 

Sil.  O  heaven ! 

Pro.  I'll  force  thee  yield  to  my  desire. 

Vol.  [Coming  forward.]  Ruffian,  let  go  that  rude 

uncivil  touch ; 
Thou  friend  of  an  ill  fashion ! 

Pro.  Valentine  ! 

Vol.  Thou  common  friend,  that's  without  faith  or 

love  ; 

^For  such  is  a  friend  now,)  treacherous  man  ! 
Thou  hast  beguil'd  my  hopes  :  nought  but  mine  eye 
Could  have  persuaded  me.     Now  I  dare  not  say 
I  have  one  friend  alive :  thou  wouldst  disprove  me. 
Who  should  be  trusted  now,  when  one's  right  hand 
Is  perjur'd  to  the  bosom  ?     Proteus, 
1  am  sorry  I  must  never  trust  thee  more, 
But  count  the  world  a  stranger  for  thy  sake. 

3  Approved  is  confirmed  by  proof 


<S(KJ  TWO    GENTLEMEN  ACT  V. 

The  private  wound  is  deepest :   O  time  most  accurst 
'Mongst  all  foes,  that  a  friend  should  be  the  worst 

Pro.  My  shame  and  guilt  confound  me.  — 
Forgive  me,  Valentine  :  if  hearty  sorrow 
Be  a  sufficient  ransom  for  offence, 
T  tender  it  here  ;  I  do  as  truly  suffer, 
As  e'er  I  did  commit. 

Vol.  Then  I  am  paid; 

And  once  again  I  do  receive  thee  honest.  — 
Who  by  repentance  is  not  satisfied, 
Is  nor  of  heaven,  nor  earth  ;  for  these  are  pleas'd 
By  penitence  th'  Eternal's  wrath's  appeas'd  :  — 
And,  that  my  love  may  appear  plain  and  free, 
All  that  was  mine  in  Silvia,  I  give  thee.4 

*  This  is  a  strange  passage.  Collier  and  Knight  have  tried 
hard,  in  different  ways,  to  make  it  look  reasonable  ;  but  there  is 
an  extravagance  about  it  that  will  not  yield  to  editorial  skill.  The 
best  comment  we  have  seen  upon  it  is  in  "  Tales  from  Shake- 
speare :  "  "  Proteus  expressed  such  a  lively  sorrow  for  the  inju- 
ries he  had  done  to  Valentine,  that  Valentine,  whose  nature  was 
noble  and  generous  even  to  a  romantic  degree,  not  only  for- 
gave and  restored  him  to  his  former  place  in  his  friendship,  but  in 
a  sudden  flight  of  heroism  he  said.  '  I  freely  do  forgive  you  ;  and 
all  the  interest  1  have  in  Silvia  I  give  it  up  to  you  \ '  "  Which 
shows  what  Charles  Lamb  and  his  sister,  "  two  highly-gifted  and 
simple-minded  persons  who  had  been  reading  Shakespeare  to- 
gether all  their  lives,"  regarded  as  the  true  sense  of  the  text. 
Mr.  Dyce,  speaking  of  "  this  overstrained  and  too  generous  act 
of  friendship,"  says  :  "  Nor  would  Shakespeare  probably,  if  the 
play  had  been  written  in  his  maturer  years,  have  made  Valentine 
give  way  to  such  'a  sudden  flight  of  heroism:'  but  The  Two 
Gentlemen  of  Verona  was  evidently  an  early  production  of  the 
great  Poet ;  and  in  many  a  volume,  popular  during  his  youth,  he 
had  found  similar  instances  of  romantic  generosity."  This  ex- 
planation seems  much  better  than  the  ingenious  efforts  of  Knight 
and  Collier  to  bring  the  representation  within  the  lines  of  nature  and 
reason.  How  hard  it  is  for  them  to  get  round  the  plain  sense  of 
the  passage,  may  be  seen  in  that  Knight  makes  ail  refer  to  wrat'n 
in  the  second  line  above,  construes  in  by  on  account  of,  and  un 
derstands  give  in  the  sense  of  give  up  or  forego ;  so  that  the 
meaning  turns  out  to  be:  "All  the  wrath  that  was  mine  DP 
account  of  Silvia  I  fo-egoj"  which  convicts  Julia  of  a  grcss 


5JC.  IV.  OF    VERONA.  '201 

Jul.  O  me,  unhappy  !  [Struggling  with  grief* 

Pro.  Look  to  the  boy. 

Vol.  Why,  boy !  why,  wag  !  how  now !  what  is 
the  matter  1  Look  up  ;  speak. 

JuL  O  good  sir  !  my  master  charg'd  me  to  deliver 
a  ring  to  Madam  Silvia ;  which,  out  of  my  neglect, 
was  never  done. 

Pro.  Where  is  that  ring,  boy  ? 

Jul.  Here  'tis  :  this  is  it.  [Gives  a  ring. 

Pro.  How !  let  me  see :  why,  this  is  the  ring  I 
gave  to  Julia. 

Jul.  O  !  cry  you  mercy,  sir ;  I  have  mistook : 
This  is  the  ring  you  sent  to  Silvia. 

[SJiows  another  ring. 

Pro.  But  how  cam'st  thou  by  this  ring  ? 
At  my  depart  I  gave  this  unto  Julia. 

Jul.  And  Julia  herself  did  give  it  me ; 
And  Julia  herself  hath  brought  it  hither. 

Pro.  How  ?     Julia  ! 

Jul.  Behold  her  that  gave  aim  *  to  all  thy  oaths, 
And  entertain'd  them  deeply  in  her  heart : 
How  oft  hast  thou  with  perjury  cleft  the  root ! " 
O  Proteus  !  let  this  habit  make  thee  blush : 
Be  thou  asham'd,  that  I  have  took  upon  me 
Such  an  immodest  raiment ;  if  shame  live 
In  a  disguise  of  love.7 

blunder  in  taking  on  so  at  what  Valentine  says.  Collier's  more 
plausible  method  is,  to  withdraw  Valentine,  so  that  he  does  not 
hear  what  passes  between  Proteus  and  Silvia  just  before,  and  so, 
from  seeing  her  thus  with  his  friend,  he  infers  that  she  is  unfaithful 
or  indifferent  towards  himself.  H. 

*  He  who  gave  aim  appears  to  have  been  called  the  mark,  and 
was  stationed  near  the  butts,  to  inform  the  archers  how  near  their 
arrows  fell  to  the  butt. 

8  That  is,  of  her  heart :  the  allusion  to  archery  is  continued,  and 
to  cleaving  tlie  pin  in  shooting  at  the  butts. 

7  That  is,  if  it  be   a  shame  to  wear  a  disguise  in   such   a 


202  TWO    GENTLEMEN  ACT  V. 

It  is  the  lesser  blot  modesty  finds, 

Women  to  change  their  shapes,  than  men  their  minds. 

Pro.  Than  men  their  minds  1  'tis  true :   O  heaven ! 

were  man 

But  constant,  he  were  perfect :  that  one  error 
Fills  him  with  faults ;  makes  him  run  through  all 

the  sins : 

Inconstancy  falls  off",  ere  it  begins : 
What  is  in  Silvia's  face,  but  I  may  spy 
More  fresh  in  Julia's,  with  a  constant  eye  ? 

Vol.  Come,  come,  a  hand  from  either : 
Let  me  be  blest  to  make  this  happy  close : 
'Twere  pity  two  such  friends  should  be  long  foes. 

Pro.  Bear  witness,  heaven,  I  have  my  wish  for- 
ever. 

lul.  And  I  mine. 

Enter  Outlaws,  with  DUKE  and  THURIO. 

Out.  A  prize  !  a  prize  !  a  prize  ! 

Vol.  Forbear :  forbear,  I  say ;  it  is  my  lord  the 

duke.  — 

Your  grace  is  welcome  to  a  man  disgrac'd, 
Banished  Valentine. 

Duke.  Sir  Valentine ! 

Thu.  Yonder  is  Silvia;  and  Silvia's  mine. 

Vol.  Thurio,  give  back,  or  else  embrace  thy  death. 
Come  not  within  the  measure  of  my  wrath : 
Do  not  name  Silvia  thine ;  if  once  again, 
Verona  shall  not  hold  thee.8     Here  she  stands  : 


8  "  Verona  shall  not  hold  thee,"  is  the  reading  of  the  only  au 
identic  copy.  Theobald  proposed  the  reading,  "  Milan  shall  nol 
behold  thee,"  which  has  been  adopted  by  all  subsequent  editors 
but  there  is  no  authority  for  the  change.  If  the  reading  be  erro- 
neous Shakespeare  must  be  held  accountable  for  this  as  well  as 
some  other  errors  in  his  early  productions. 


8>C.   IV.  OF    VERONA.  2(>3 

Take  but  possession  of  her  with  a  touch ;  — 
I  dare  thee  but  to  breathe  upon  my  love. 

Thu.  Sir  Valentine,  I  care  not  for  her,  I. 
I  hold  him  but  a  fool,  that  will  endanger 
His  body  for  a  girl  that  loves  him  not: 
I  claim  her  not,  and  therefore  she  is  thine. 

Duke.  The  more  degenerate  and  base  art  thou, 
To  make  such  means  9  for  her  as  thou  hast  done, 
And  leave  her  on  such  slight  conditions. — 
Now,  by  the  honour  of  my  ancestry, 
I  do  applaud  thy  spirit,  Valentine, 
And  think  thee  worthy  of  an  empress'  love 
Know  then,  I  here  forget  all  former  griefs, 
Cancel  all  grudge,  repeal 10  thee  home  again, 
Plead  a  new  state  in  thy  unrivall'd  merit, 
To  which  I  thus  subscribe,  —  Sir  Valentine, 
Thou  art  a  gentleman,  and  well  deriv'd: 
Take  thou  thy  Silvia,  for  thou  hast  deserv'd  her. 

VaL  I  thank  your  grace ;  the  gift  hath  made  me 

happy. 

1  now  beseech  you,  for  your  daughter's  sake, 
To  grant  one  boon  that  I  shall  ask  of  you. 

Duke.  I  grant  it  for  thine  own,  whate'er  it  be. 

Vol.  These  banish'd  men,  that  I  have  kept  withal,11 
Are  men  endued  with  worthy  qualities : 
Forgive  them  what  they  have  committed  here, 
And  let  them  be  recall'd  from  their  exile : 
They  are  reformed,  civil,  full  of  good, 
And  fit  for  great  employment,  worthy  lord. 

Duke.  Thou  hast  prevail'd  ;  I  pardon  them,  and 

thee : 
Dispose  of  them,  as  thou  know'st  their  deserts. 

9  "  To  make,  such  means  for  her,"  to  make  such  interett  for,  to 
take  such  disingenuous  pains  about  her. 

10  That  is,  repeal  the  sentence  of  banishment.  a 

11  That  is,  that  I  have  been  living  with.  H 


204      TWO  GENTLEMEN  OF  VERONA.    ACT  V. 

Come,  let  us  go :  we  will  include 12  all  jars 
With  triumphs,13  mirth,  and  rare  solemnity. 

Vol.  And,  as  we  walk  along,  I  dare  be  bold 
With  our  discourse  to  make  your  grace  to  smile : 
What  think  you  of  this  page,  my  lord  ? 

Duke.   I  think  the  boy  hath  grace  in  him:   he 
blushes. 

Vol.   I  warrant  you,  my  lord  ;   more  grace  than 
boy. 

Duke.  What  mean  you  by  that  saying? 

Val.  Please  you,  I'll  tell  you  as  we  pass  along, 
That  you  will  wonder  what  hath  fortuned.  — 
Come,  Proteus ;  'tis  your  penance,  but  to  hear 
The  story  of  your  loves  discovered : 
That  done,  our  day  of  marriage  shall  be  yours ; 
One  feast,  one  house,  one  mutual  happiness. 

[Exeunt. 

12  Include  is  here  used  for  conclude.    This  is  another  of  Shak- 
speare's  Latinisms. 

13  Triumphs  are  pageants,  such  as  masks  and  shows. 


INTRODUCTION 


THE  MERRY  WIVES  OF  WINDSOR. 


THE  MERRY  WIVES  OF  WINDSOR,  as  we  have  it,  was  nrsi 
printed  in  the  folio  of  1623,  where  it  occupies  the  third  place  in 
the  list  of  Comedies.  An  imperfect  and  probably  fraudulent  edi 
lion,  however,  came  out  in  1602,  and  was  reprinted  in  1619.  In 
this  edition  the  play  is  but  about  half  as  long  as  in  the  authentic 
eopy  of  1623;  the  scenes  following-  each  other  in  the  same  order, 
except  in  one  instance ;  and  some  prose  parts  being  printed  in  the 
manner  of  verse.  Much  question  has  been  made,  whether  the 
impression  of  1602  were  from  a  correct  copy  of  an  unfinished 
play,  or  from  a  report  stolen  at  the  theatre  and  mangled  in  the 
stealing. 

Of  course  every  reader  of  Shakespeare  has  heard  the  tradition 
that  Queen  Elizabeth,  upon  witnessing  the  performance  of  Henry 
IV.,  was  so  taken  with  Falstaff  that  she  forthwith  requested  the 
Poet  to  represent  him  in  the  quality  of  a  lover ;  in  compliance 
with  which  request  he  wrote  The  Merry  Wives  of  Windsor. 
Queen  Elizabeth  was  indeed  a  great  woman,  and  did  some  great 
things  :  but  if  it  were  certain  that  she  was  thus  the  occasion  of  this 
play,  there  are  many  who  would  not  scruple  to  set  it  down  as  the 
best  thing  she  had  any  agency  in  bringing  to  pass ;  and  another 
many  who  might  regard  it  as  the  best  but  one.  If  this  be  wrong, 
there  is  no  help  for  it ;  for  such,  assuredly,  will  always  be  the  case 
so  long  as  men  can  "  laugh  and  grow  fat." 

But  there  is  much  diversity  of  judgment  touching  the  amount 
of  credit  due  to  this  tradition.  Mr.  Collier  says  :  "  When  traced 
to  its  source,  it  can  be  carried  back  no  further  than  1702 :  Joiui 
Dennis  in  that  year  printed  his  •  Comical  Gallant,'  founded  upon 
'  The  Merry  Wives  of  Windsor,'  and  in  the  dedication  he  states 
that  •  the  comedy  was  written  at  the  command  of  Queen  Elizabeth, 
and  by  her  direction ;  and  she  was  so  eager  to  see  it  acted,  that 
»he  commanded  it  to  be  finished  in  fourteen  davs.'  Dennis  give* 


208  THE    MERRY    WIVES    OF    WINDSOR. 

no  authority  for  any  part  of  this  assertion  :  but  because  he  knew 
Dryden,  it  is  supposed  to  have  come  from  him ;  and  because 
Dryden  was  acquainted  with  Davenant,  it  has  been  conjectured 
that  the  latter  communicated  it  to  the  former.  We  own  that  we 
place  little  or  no  reliance  on  the  story,  especially  recollecting  that 
Dennis  had  to  make  out  a  case  in  favour  of  his  alterations,  by 
showing  that  Shakespeare  had  composed  the  comedy  in  an  incredi- 
bly short  period,  and  consequently  that  it  was  capable  of  improve- 
ment." 

Ail  which  is  clever  and  spirited  enough,  but  strikes  us  as  a 
rather  too  summary  disposing  of  the  matter;  the  tradition  not 
being  incredible  in  itself,  nor  the  immediate  sources  of  it  uneri- 
titled  to  confidence  :  for,  granting  that  "  Dennis  had  to  make  out 
a  case  in  favour  of  his  alterations."  would  he  not  be  more  likely 
to  avail  himself  of  something  generally  received,  than  to  get  up 
so  questionable  a  fabrication  ?  The  date  of  his  statement  was  but 
eighty-six  years  after  the  Poet's  death  ;  —  a  time  when  much  tra- 
ditionary matter,  handed  down  from  the  reign  of  Elizabeth,  was 
doubtless  in  circulation,  that  had  not  yet  got  into  print :  Dennis 
moved  more  or  less  in  the  literary  circle  of  which  Dryden  was  the 
centre  ;  and  that  circle,  however  degenerate,  was  the  lineal  sue 
cessor  of  the  glorious  constellation  gathered  about  Shakespeare 
It  is  considerable  that  Dennis  gave  no  reason  for  the  Queen's 
alleged  request ;  which  reason  Rowe  a  few  years  later  stated  to 
be  the  pleasure  she  had  from  Falstaff  in  Henry  IV. ;  —  a  differ- 
ence of  statement  that  rather  goes  to  accredit  the  substance  of  the 
tradition,  because  it  looks  as  if  both  drew  from  a  common  source, 
not  one  from  the  other ;  each  using  such  and  so  much  of  the  tra 
ditionary  matter  as  would  best  serve  his  turn.  Their  account,  or 
rather,  perhaps,  the  general  belief  from  which  it  was  taken,  was 
received  by  Pope,  Theobald,  and  other  contemporaries,  —  men 
who  would  not  be  very  apt  to  let  such  a  matter  go  unsifted,  or 
help  to  give  it  currency  unless  they  thought  there  was  good 
ground  for  it. 

"  An  excellent  and  pleasant  conceited  comedy  of  Sir  John  Fal 
staff  and  the  Merry  Wives  of  Windsor  "  was  entered  in  the  Regis- 
ters of  the  Stationers'  Company,  Jan.  18,  1602.  The  title-page 
of  the  edition  which  came  out  soon  after  reads  thus :  "  A  most 
pleasant  and  excellent  conceited  comedy  of  Sir  John  Falstaff  and 
the  Merry  Wives  of  Windsor;  intermixed  with  sundry  variable 
and  pleasing  humours  of  Sir  Hugh .  the  Welch  Knight,  Justice 
Shallow,  and  his  wise  Cousin  M.  Slender;  with  the  swaggering 
vein  of  Ancient  Pistol,  and  Corporal  Nym.  By  William  Shake- 
speare. As  it  hath  been  divers  times  acted  by  the  Right  Honour- 
able my  Lord  Chamberlain's  servants ;  both  before  Her  Majesty, 
and  elsewhere."  We  may  set  it  down,  therefore,  as  tolerably 
certain  that  The  Merry  Wives  of  Windsor  was  performed  before 
ibe  Queen  near  the  close  of  1601,  notwithstanding  the  opinion  of 


INTRODUCTION.  ^U9 

'"lialmers,  that  "  she  was  then  in  no  mood  foi  such  fooleries.' 
And  probably  one  reason  for  getting  up  the  piratical  edition  of 
1602  was,  that  the  play  had  been  "  divers  ti-;  es  acted,  both  oelore 
Her  Majesty  and  elsewhere."  Now,  that  Queen  Elizabeth  was 
capable  of  appreciating  the  genius  of  Falstaff,  will  hardly  be 
questioned ;  that  she  had  been  present  at  the  performance  ot 
Henry  IV.,  is  quite  probable,  considering  the  great  popularity  of 
that  play  as  evinced  in  that  five  editions  of  it  were  published  be- 
tween 1598  and  1613 ;  that,  having  seen  the  irresistible  Knight  as 
there  presented,  she  should  desire  to  see  more  of  him,  was  cer- 
'ainly  natural  enough  :  all  which  being  granted,  there  appears 
nothing  to  hinder,  either  that  she  should  request  the  Poet  to  con- 
tinue the  character  through  another  play,  or  that  he  should  hasten 
to  comply  with  the  request.  Moreover,  we  learn  from  the  "  Ac- 
counts of  the  Revels  at  Court,"  that  The  Merry  Wives  of  Wind- 
sor was  acted  before  King  James,  in  Nov.  1604.  May  we  not 
justly  conclude,  then,  that  this  was  probably  one  of  the  plays  re- 
ferred to  by  Ben  Jonson  in  his  noble  poem,  "  To  the  Memory  ol 
my  beloved  Mr.  William  Shakespeare,  and  what  he  hath  left  us  ? 

"  Sweet  Swan  of  Avon,  what  a  sight  it  were, 
To  see  thee  in  our  waters  yet  appear ; 
And  make  those  flights  upon  the  banks  of  Thames, 
That  so  did  take  Eliza  and  our  James  !  " 

So  that,  upon  the  whole,  we  can  by  no  means  bring  ourselves  to 
regard  the  forecited  tradition  with  the  contempt  which  Mr.  Collier 
seems  to  think  it  deserves.  The  only  part  of  it  that  much  troubles 
us  to  digest,  is  that  concerning  the  time  wherein  it  makes  the  play 
to  have  been  written  :  this,  we  confess,  staggers  us  somewhat : 
yet,  supposing  it  to  be  false,  it  does  not  greatly  invalidate  the 
substance  of  the  tradition  ;  and  we  are  well  assured  that  the  play, 
as  published  in  1602.  might  well  enough  have  been  written  by 
Slw.kespea.rf.  within  the  time  alleged.  The  question,  therefore, 
turns  somewhat  upon  the  point,  whether  that  edition  was  from  a 
correct  copy  of  an  imperfect  and  unfinished  play,  a  sort  of  rough 
draught  hastily  gotten  up  for  the  occasion,  or  from  a  false  and 
mutilated  copy  stolen  from  the  actors'  lips  by  incompetent  reporters, 
to  gratify  the  cupidity  of  unscrupulous  publishers.  This  question 
we  have  not  room  to  discuss  ;  and,  if  we  had,  the  long  discussions, 
indulged  in  by  former  critics  to  little  purpose,  shut  us  up  from  all 
hope  of  being  able  ever  to  detennine  it.  We  may  remark,  how- 
ever, there  can  be  little  doubt  that  the  edition  of  1602  was  fraudu- 
lent and  surreptitious  ;  though  this  need  not  infer  but  that  it  may 
Lave  been  from  a  faithful  copy  fraudulently  obtained  for  the  prest. 
Yet  there  are  some  things  in  it,  such  as  the  printing  of  prose  so  as 
to  look  like  vprse,  which  go  to  show  that  it  was  partly  taken  down 
ELS  spoken,  and  partly  made  up  from  memory  ;  the  pirates  ap- 


210  THE    MERRY    WIVES    OF    WINDSOR 

parently  having  no  ear  to  distinguish  prose  and  verse,  aud  so  me- 
suming  it  to  be  poetry,  because  written  by  a  poet.  Thai  such 
frauds  and  piracies  were  practised  with  some  of  Shakespeare's 
plays,  scarce  admits  of  dispute.  But,  for  aught  appears.  The 
Merry  Wives  of  Windsor  may  have  been  at  that  time  very  imper- 
fect and  inferior  to  what  it  is  now,  and  yet  the  first  edition  a  stolen 
and  mangled  copy  of  the  play  as  it  then  was.  And,  whether  from 
a  correct  or  from  a  mutilated  transcript,  that  edition  contains  pas- 
sages of  which  no  traces  are  discoverable  in  the  play  as  it  now 
stands.  Such  is  the  following  from  the  fifth  act : 

"  Sir  Hugh.  Go  you  and  see  where  brokers  sleep, 
And  fox-ey'd  Serjeants,  with  their  mace ; 
Go  lay  the  proctors  in  the  street, 
And  pinch  the  lousy  Serjeant's  face : 
Spare  none  of  these  when  they're  a-bed, 
But  such  whose  nose  looks  blue  and  red. 
Quickly.  Away,  begone  ;  his  mind  fulfil, 
And  look  that  none  of  you  stand  still : 
Some  do  that  thing,  some  do  this, 
All  do  something,  none  amiss." 

There  being  no  corresponding  passage  '  ,^8  later  edition  strongly 
argues  that  the  play,  at  least  in  th^  /art,  was  entirely  rewritten 
after  the  first  copy  was  taken  for  tl  e  press  ;  for  men,  whether  pur- 
loining a  manuscript  or  reporting  it  as  spoken,  would  obviously  be 
much  more  apt  to  omit  or  alter  words  and  sentences,  than  to  make 
additions  or  put  in  quite  other  matter.  On  the  other  hand,  the 
authentic  edition  has  some  passages  that  can  hardly  be  explained 
but  upon  the  supposal  that  the  play  was  revised,  and  those  pas 
sages  inserted,  after  the  accession  of  James  in  the  spring  of  1603 
Such  is  the  odd  reason  Mrs.  Page  gives  Mrs.  Ford  for  declining  to 
share  the  honour  of  Knighthood  with  Sir  John  •  "  These  knights 
will  hack ;  and  so  thou  shouldst  not  alter  the  article  of  thy  gentry  :  " 
which  can  scarce  bear  any  other  sense  than  as  referring  to  the 
p;odigality  with  which  the  King  dispensed  those  honours  in  the 
first  of  his  reign ;  Knighthood  being  thereby  in  a  way  to  grow  so 
hackneyed  that  it  would  rather  be  an  honour  not  to  have  been 
dubbed.  And,  indeed,  perhaps  it  may  as  well  be  noted  here,  that 
many  of  Shakespeare's  plays  apparently  underwent  so  many 
revisals  and  improvements  between  the  first  sketching  and  the  last 
finishing  of  them,  that  any  allusions  they  may  contain  to  the 
events  of  his  time  afford  a  very  uncertain  clew  to  the  date  of 
their  original  composition. 

There  remains  a  question  of  some  interest  as  to  the  time  when 
The  Merry  Wives  was  first  written  ;  whether  before  or  aftei 
Henry  IV. ;  for,  if  before,  this  at  once  upsets  that  part  of  the 
tradition  which  assigns  the  huge  delight  the  Queen  iad  at  seeing 


INTRODUCTION.  21 1 

Kaistaff  in  wit  and  war.  as  the  cause  of  her  requesting1  to  see  him 
in  love.  Knight  and  Halliwell,  taking  the  edition  of  1602  as  a 
faithful,  though  perhaps  surreptitious,  copy  of  the  play  as  then 
written,  date  "  the  original  sketch  "  as  far  back  as  1592  or  1593. 
In  proof  of  this  they  urge  what  passes  between  Sir  Hugh  Evans, 
'<  mine  Host  de  Jarterre,"  and  Dr.  Caius  respecting  "  a  duke  de 
Jannany ;  "  because  in  1592  a  German  duke  actually  did  travel 
in  England,  with  such  special  privileges  and  accommodations  as 
are  indicated  in  the  play.  Mr.  Knight's  argument  runs  thus  : 
"  Now,  if  we  knew  that  a  real  German  duke  had  visited  Windsor, 
(a  rare  occurrence  in  the  days  of  Elizabeth,)  we  should  have  the 
date  of  the  comedy  pretty  exactly  fixed.  The  circumstance 
would  be  one  of  those  local  and  temporary  allusions  which  Shake- 
speare seized  upon  to  arrest  the  attention  of  his  audience.  We 
have  before  us  a  narrative,  printed  in  the  old  German  language, 
of  the  journey  to  England  of  the  Duke  of  Wurtemburg  in  1592 ; 
which  narrative,  drawn  up  by  his  secretary,  contains  a  daily  jour- 
nal of  his  proceedings.  He  was  accompanied  by  a  considerable 
retinue,  and  travelled  under  the  name  of  "  The  Count  Mombe 
liard." 

From  the  resemblance  of  this  name  to  Garmomble,  an  apparent 
anagram  of  Mumpelgart,  which  occurs  ill  the  copy  of  1602,  Mr. 
Knight  justly  infers  the  identity  of  the  person.  Yet  the  force  of 
(is  reasoning  is  not  altogether  apparent,  as  it  proceeds  by  a  very 
jmcertain  measure  between  the  date  of  an  event  alluded  to  and 
the  date  of  the  allusion  itself.  Surely,  in  proportion  to  the  rare- 
ness of  an  occurrence  and  the  sensation  it  caused,  it  would  nat- 
urally be  remembered  and  remarked  upon  afterwards  :  nor  is  it 
easy  to  see  how  so  rare  and  remarkable  a  thing  as  Mr.  Halliwell 
represents  this  to  have  been,  was  "  a  matter  to  be  forgotten  in 
1601."  Shakespeare's  "local  and  temporary  allusions,"  be  it 
observed,  were  not  merely  for  novelty  and  popularity,  or  used  as 
ear-catchers  to  his  audience  ;  but  for  whatsoever  matter  he  saw 
in  them  that  could  be  made  to  serve  the  general  purposes  of  art : 
and  that  the  thing  in  question  would  not  so  soon  be  spoilt  for  his 
use,  appears  in  the  interest  it  has  for  us ;  and  would  have,  even 
if  we  had  never  heard  of  any  such  event  occurring  in  his  time. 

In  further  proof  of  his  point  Mr.  Knight  alleges  several  pas- 
sages from  the  finished  play,  which  are  not  found  in  the  "  original 
sketch,"  and  which  apparently  refer  to  things  occurring  after  the 
supposed  date  of  that  sketch.  But  all  such  arguments  are  at 
once  nonsuited  by  the  supposition,  which,  to  say  the  least,  is  a 
probable  one,  that  the  edition  of  1602  was  not  from  a  faithful 
transcript,  however  obtained,  of  an  unfinished  play,  but  from  a 
copy  fraudulently  taken  down  and  made  up  by  unskilful  reporters. 

There  appears  no  good  reason,  therefore,  but  that  The  Merry 
Wives  of  Windsor  may  have  been  written  after  Henry  IV.,  the 
First  Part  of  which  was  first  pub'ished  in  1598.  and  probahii 


212  THE    MERRY    WIVES    OF    WINDSOR 

written  the  year  before:  that  it  was  written  earlier  than  Jbl'b 
nobody  pietends.  And  that  The  Merry  Wives  had  not  been 
heard  of  in  1598,  is  further  probable  from  its  not  being  mentioned 
oy  Meres  in  his  Wit's  Treasury,  which  came  out  that  year  ;  for, 
bis  purpose  being  to  approve  Shakespeare  "  the  most  excellent 
among  the  English  in  both  "  comedy  and  tragedy,  it  seems  rather 
unlikely  that  lie  would  have  passed  by  so  apt  a  document  of 
comic  power,  had  it  been  known. 

A  deal  of  perplexity  has  been  gotten  up  as  to  the  time  of  the 
action  in  this  play  ;  that  is,  in  what  period  of  his  life  Falstaff 
undertook  the  adventures  at  Windsor,  whether  before  or  after  his 
exploits  represented  in  Henry  IV.,  or  at  some  intermediate  time ; 
questions  scarce  worth  the  discussing  or  even  the  raising,  but  that 
it  would  hardly  do  to  ignore  a  thing  about  which  there  has  been 
so  much  ado.  Much  of  this  perplexity  seems  to  have  risen  from 
confounding  the  order  in  which  the  several  plays  were  made,  with 
the  order  of  the  events  described  in  them.  Now,  at  the  close  of 
Henry  IV.  Falstaff  and  his  companions  are  banished  the  neighbour 
hood  of  the  Court,  "  till  their  conversations  appear  more  wise  and 
modest  to  the  world ;  "  and  near  the  opening  of  Henry  V.,  which 
follows  hard  upon  the  close  of  the  former  play,  we  have  an  accoun 
of  Falstaff's  death.  And  because  The  Merry  Wives  of  Windsor 
was  probably  written  after  both  those  plays,  therefore  the  Poel 
has  been  thought  by  some  to  have  ventured  upon  the  questionable 
experiment  of  bringing  Sir  John  and  two  of  his  followers  upon  the 
stage  after  their  death  ;  just  as  though  one  could  not  write  the  latter 
part  of  a  man's  life,  and  tell  the  story  of  his  last  hours,  and  then 
go  back  and  give  the  history  of  his  boyhood  and  youth,  without 
breaking  the  sacred  peace  of  the  grave.  That  the  exploits  at 
Windsor  were  before  those  at  Gadshill,  Eastcheap,  and  Shrews- 
bury, in  the  order  of  time,  is  shown  by  Mrs.  Quickly's  progress  ; 
who  in  the  Merry  Wives  is  a  maiden  and  the  housekeeper  of  Dr. 
Caius ;  but  in  the  other  plays  she  has  become  a  wife,  tnough  still 
Quickly  ;  then  she  dwells  awhile  in  widowhood,  until,  the  sweet- 
ness of  her  former  marriage  having  taught  her  better  than  to  live 
out  of  wedlock,  "  she  taketh  to  herself  another  mate."  And  the 
same  thing  is  further  shown  in  Falstaff's  fearing  lest  the  noise  of 
his  shames  should  come  to  the  ears  of  the  Court ;  which  fear  could 
hardly  be,  but  that  he  still  have  something  there  to  lose  :  for  he 
seems  not  to  be  aware  how  completely  his  genius  in  other  exigen- 
cies will  triumph  over  his  failures  in  love-making.  Nevertheless, 
it  must  be  owned  that  the  Poet,  probably  because  the  subject 
never  occurred  to  him,  or  because  he  sometimes  lost  the  historical 
order  of  things  in  an  overmastering  sense  of  art,  did  not  in  all 
cases  take  care  to  shun  such  anachronisms  as  criticism  hath  de- 
lighted to  find  in  his  plays.  Perhaps  it  should  be  observed  in  this 
connection,  that  the  two  parts  of  Henry  IV.  cover  a  period  of  ten 
and  a  half  years,  from  the  battle  of  Homildon,  Sept.  1402,  to  the 


INTRODUCTION.  '213 

death  of  the  King,  March,  1413  ;  in  which  time  FalstaflT  (".otihtlest 
had  intervals  of  leisure  for  such  adventures  as  those  at  Windsor. 
So  that  the  action  of  the  Comedy,  supposing  it  were  not  before, 
might  well  enough  have  taken  place  some  time  during,  the  action 
of  the  History.  And  if  the  former  seem  too  early  a  date  for  'he 
mention  of  "  the  wild  Prince  and  Poins  ;  "  it  would  be  'considered 
that  the  Poet  represents  the  Prince  as  already  noted  for  his  loose 
and  idle  courses,  his  connection  with  the  rioters  of  Eastcheap  hav- 
ing begun  even  before  his  father  reached  the  throne. 

For  the  plot  and  matter  of  The  Merry  Wives,  Shakespeare  was 
apparently  little  indebted  to  any  thing  but  his  own  invention. 
"  The  Two  Lovers  of  Pisa,"  a  tale  borrowed  from  the  novels  of 
Straparola,  and  published  in  Tarlton's  "  Newes  out  of  Purgatorie," 
1590,  is  thought  to  have  suggested  some  of  the  incidents  ;  and  the 
notion  seems  probable  enough.  In  that  Tale  a  young  gallant  falls 
in  love  with  a  jealous  old  doctor's  wife,  who  is  also  young,  and 
really  encourages  the  unlawful  passion.  The  gallant,  not  know- 
ing the  doctor,  takes  him  for  confidant  and  counsellor  in  the  prose- 
cution of  his  suit,  and  is  thus  thwarted  in  all  his  plans.  The 
naughty  wife  conceals  her  lover  first  in  a  basket  of  feathers,  then 
between  the  ceilings  of  a  room,  and  again  in  a  box  of  deeds  and 
valuable  papers.  If  the  Poet  had  any  other  obligations,  they 
have  not  been  traced  clearly  enough  to  be  worth  the  mentioning. 

As  a  specimen  of  pure  comedy,  The  Merry  Wives  of  Windsor 
by  general  concession  stands  unrivalled  ;  the  play  being  not  only 
replete  with  the  most  ludicrous  situations  and  predicaments,  but 
surpassingly  rich  both  in  quality  and  variety  of  comic  character! 
zation.  To  say  nothing  of  Falstaff,  who  is  an  inexhaustible  store- 
house of  laughter-moving  preparations,  there  is  comic  matter 
enough  in  the  other  persons  to  keep  the  world  in  perpetual  laughter. 
Though  historically  connected  with  the  reign  of  Henry  IV.,  the 
play  is  otherwise  a  delineation  of  the  manners  and  humours  of  the 
Poet's  time :  in  which  view  we  need  but  compare  it  with  Ben 
Jonson's  Every  Man  in  His  Humour,  great  as  is  the  latter,  to  see 
"  how  much  easier  it  was  to  vanquish  the  rest  of  Europe  than  to 
contend  with  Shakespeare." 

The  action  of  this  play  proceeds  throughout  by  intrigue ;  mean- 
ing thereby  such  a  complication  of  cross-purposes  and  conflicting 
aims,  wherein  the  several  persons  strive  to  outwit  and  circumvent 
or.e  another.  And  the  stratagems  all  have  the  appropriate  merit 
of  causing  a  grateful  surprise,  and  a  perplexity  that  interests  be- 
cause it  stops  short  of  confusion  ;  while  the  awkward  and  grotesque 
predicaments,  into  which  the  persons  throw  each  other  by  their  cross- 
plottings  and  counter-plottings,  are  often  a  source  of  exquisite  diver 
lion.  The  play  finely  illustrates,  moreover,  though  in  its  own  pecu- 
'iar  line,  the  general  order  and  method  of  Shakespeare's  art ;  the 
turrounding  parts  falling  in  with  the  central  one,  and  the  subordinate 
plots  drawing,  as  by  a  hidden  impulse,  into  harmon\  with  the  leao- 


214  THE    MERRY    WIVES    OF    WINDSOR. 

ing  one :  if  Falstaff  be  doomed  to  repeated  collapses  from  u  hero 
into  a  butt,  that  others  may  laugh  at  him  instead  of  with  him,  the 
Welch  Parson  and  French  Doctor  are  also  defeattd  of  their  re- 
venge, just  as  they  are  getting  over  the  preliminary  pains  and 
vexatinns,  and  while  pluming  themselves  with  forthcoming  honours 
are  suddenly  deplumed  into  "  vlouting-stogs ; "  Page  and  his 
wife  no  sooner  begin  to  exult  in  their  success  than  they  are  taken 
down  by  the  thrift  of  a  counter-stratagem,  and  left  to  the  double 
shame  of  ignobly  failing  in  a  disreputable  undertaking  :  <ind 
Ford's  jealousy  is  made  to  scourge  him  with  the  very  whip  be  lias 
twisted  for  the  scourging  of  its  object.  Thus  all  the  more  prom- 
inent characters  have  to  chew  the  ashes  of  disappointment  in  turn, 
their  plans  being  thwarted,  and  themselves  made  ridiculous,  just 
as  they  are  on  the  point  of  grasping  their  several  fruitions.  Cut 
Falstaff  is  the  only  one  of  them  that  rises  by  falling  and  extracts 
grace  out  of  his  very  disgraces.  For  in  him  the  grotesque  and 
ludicrous  is  evermore  laughing  and  chuckling  over  itself :  he  makes 
comedies  extempore  out  of  his  own  shames  and  infirmities ;  and 
is  himself  the  most  delighted  spectator  of  the  side-shaking  scenes 
where  himself  figures  as  chief  actor. 

This  observation  and  enjoyment  of  the  comical  as  exhibited  in 
himself,  which  forms  perhaps  the  leading  characteristic  of  Sir 
John,  and  explains  much  in  him  that  were  else  inexplicable,  is  here 
seen,  however,  labouring  under  something  of  an  eclipse.  The 
truth  is,  Falstaff  is  plainly  out  of  his  sphere ;  and  he  shows  a  sad 
want  of  his  usual  sagacity  and  good  sense  in  getting  into  it,  —  in 
supposing  for  a  moment  that  he  could  inspire  such  a  passion  in 
such  a  place  :  nor  does  it  seem  probable  that  the  Poet  would  have 
exhibited  him  thus,  but  that  he  were  moved  thereto  by  somewhat 
else  than  the  native  promptings  of  his  genius.  For  of  love  in 
any  right  or  respectable  sense  Sir  John  is  essentially  incapable; 
and  to  represent  him  otherwise,  had  been  to  contradict,  not  carry 
out,  his  character.  Shakespeare  doubtless  understood  this ;  and, 
being  thus  reduced  to  the  alternative  of  committing  a  gross  breach 
of  decorum  or  of  making  the  hero  unsuccessful,  the  moral  sanity 
of  his  genius  left  him  no  choice.  Accordingly  Sir  John  is  here 
conspicuous  not  so  much  for  what  he  practises  as  for  what  is 
practised  upon  him  ;  he  being,  in  fact,  the  dupe  and  victim  of  hig 
own  heroism,  and  provoking  laughter  more  by  that  he  suffers  thaB 
by  that  he  does.  So  that  the  internal  evidence  of  the  play  stronglv 
favours  the  tradition  of  the  Queen's  requesting  to  see  Falstaff  in 
love ;  as  such  request  affords  the  only  clear  solution  of  the  Poet's 
representing  one  who  was  plainly  a  favourite  with  him  in  so  un- 
suitable a  quality.  For,  if  we  may  believe  Hazlitt,  "  wits  and 
philosophers  seldom  shine  in  that  character ; "  and,  whether  thi.i 
be  true  or  not,  it  is  certain  that  "  Sir  John  by  no  means  comes  off 
with  flying  colours." 

Hut  Falstaff,  notwithstanding  these  drawbacks,  is  still  so  far  him 


INTRODUCTION.  215 

self  that  "  nnught  hut  himself  can  be  his  conqueror."  If  he  b« 
overmatched,  it  is  not  so  much  by  the  strength  or  skill  of  his  antag- 
onists, as  from  his  being  persuaded,  seerr.ingly  against  his  wi'l  and 
for  the  pleasure  of  others,  into  a  line  of  adventure  where  he  is  not 
qualified  to  thrive.  His  incomparable  art  of  turning'  adversities 
into  commodities  ;  the  good-humoured  strategy  whereby  he  man- 
ages to  divert  off  all  unpleasant  feeling  of  his  vices  and  frailties ; 
the  marvellous  agility  and  aptness  of  wit  which,  with  a  vesture 
of  odd  and  \\himsical  constructions,  at  once  hides  the  offensive 
and  discovers  the  comical  features  of  his  conduct ;  the  same 
towering  impudence  and  sublime  effrontery,  which  so  lift  him  aloft 
in  his  subsequent  exploits  ;  and  the  overpowering  eloquence  of 
exaggeration,  with  which  he  delights  to  set  off  and  heighten  what 
soever  is  most  ludicrous  in  his  own  person  or  situation  ;  —  all  these 
qualities,  though  not  in  their  full  bloom  and  vigour,  are  here  to  be 
seen  in  triumphant  exercise. 

Upon  the  whole,  however,  this  bringing  forth  of  Sir  John  mote 
for  exposure  than  for  exhibition  is  not  altogether  grateful  to  those 
whom  he  has  so  often  convulsed  into  health  :  though  he  still  gives 
us  wholesome  shakings,  we  feel  that  it  costs  him  too  much  :  the 
rare  exhilaration  he  affords  us  elsewhere,  and  even  here,  invests 
him  with  a  sort  of  humorous  reverence ;  insomuch  that  we  can 
hardly  help  pitying  even  while  we  approve  his  merited,  yet  scarcelw 
merited,  shames  and  failures ;  and  we  would  fain  make  out  some 
excuse  for  him  on  the  score  of  these  slips'  occurring  earlier  in  his 
life,  when  experience  had  not  yet  disciplined  away  the  natural 
vanity  which  may  sometimes  lead  a  man  of  genius  to  fancy  him- 
self the  object  of  the  tender  passion.  And  in  like  manner  we  are 
apt  to  apologize  for  the  Poet's  exposure  of  his  and  our  favourite, 
on  the  ground  that,  being  to  represent  him  in  an  enterprise  where 
he  could  not  deserve  success,  nor  even  work  for  it  but  by  knavery, 
he  was  under  a  strong  moral  necessity  of  causing  him  not  only  to 
be  thwarted,  but  to  become  the  laughing-stock  of  those  who  thwart 
him,  and,  which  is  especially  galling  to  one  so  wit-proud  as  Sir  John, 
"  to  stand  at  the  taunt  of  one  that  makes  fritters  of  English." 
And  we  are  the  more  disposed  to  leniency  towards  Falstaff  amid 
his  unparalleled  swampings,  forasmuch  as  his  merry  persecutors 
are  but  a  sort  of  decorous,  respectable,  common-place  people, 
who  borrow  their  chief  importance  from  the  victim  of  their  mis- 
chievous sport ;  and  if  they  are  not  so  bad  as  to  make  us  wish 
him  success,  neither  are  they  so  good  that  we  like  to  see  them 
gjow  at  his  expense.  But  on  this  point  Mr.  Verplanck  has  spoken 
so  aptly,  that  mere  justice  to  the  subject  bids  us  quote  him :  "  Oui 
choler  would  rise,  despite  of  us,  against  Cleopatra  herself,  should 
she  presume  to  make  a  dupe  and  tool  of  regal  old  Jack,  the  natural 
lord  and  master  of  all  about  him  ;  and,  though  not  so  atrociously 
immoral  as  to  wish  he  had  succeeded  with  the  Windsor  gypsies. 
«'e  plead  guilty  to  the  minor  turpitude  of  sympathy,  when  he  telii 


216  THE    MERRY    WIVES    OF    WINDSOK. 

Ins  persecutors,  with  brightening  visage  and  exuliaiu  twinkle  of 
ey«%  — '  I  am  glad,  though  you  have  ta'en  a  special  stand  to  strike 
at  me,  that  your  arrow  hath  glauc'd.'  " 

A  further  account  of  this  huge  magazine  of  comedies  must  be 
deferred  till  we  encounter  him  at  the  noon  of  his  glory,  stealing, 
drinking,  lying,  recruiting,  warring,  and  discoursing  of  wine,  wit 
valour,  and  honour,  with  Prince  Hal  at  his  side  to  wrestle  forth 
the  prodigies  of  his  big-teeming  brain. 

Sir  John's  followers  are  und->r  the  cloud  with  him,  being  little 
more  than  the  shadows  of  what  they  appear  when  their  master  is 
fully  himself:  the  light  of  Bardolph's  nose  is  not  well  kindled  yet; 
Pistol,  ancient  Pistol's  tongue  has  not  yet  learned  to  strut  with 
such  potent  impotence  as  it  elsewhere  waxes  great  withal.  Quickly, 
however,  is  altogether  herself  as  far  as  she  goes,  and  she  lets  oif 
some  brilliancies  that  would  not  discredit  her  maturity  in  the  more 
congenial  atmosphere  of  Eastcheap ;  though  of  course  we  may 
not  expect  her  to  be  the  woman  now  that  she  will  be  when  she  has 
known  Sir  John  "  these  twenty-nine  years,  come  peascod  time." 
Acting  here  in  the  capacity  of  a  matchmaker  and  go-between, 
her  perfect  impartiality  towards  all  of  Anne  Page's  suitors,  both 
in  the  service  she  renders  and  in  the  return  she  accepts,  finely  ex- 
emplifies the  indefatigable  benevolence  of  that  class  of  worthies 
towards  themselves,  and  is  so  true  to  the  life  of  a  certain  perpet- 
ual sort  of  people,  as  almost  to  make  one  believe  in  the  transmi- 
gration of  souls.  —  "  Mine  Host  of  the  Garter  "  is  indeed  a  model 
of  a  host :  up  to  any  thing,  and  brimful  of  fuu,  so  that  it  runs  out 
at  the  ends  of  his  fingers,  nothing  suits  him  so  well  as  to  uncork 
the  wit-holders  of  his  guests,  unless,  peradventure,  it  be  to  uncork 
his  wine-holders  for  them.  His  exhilarating  conceit  of  practical 
shrewdness,  —  "  Am  I  politic  ?  am  I  subtle  ?  am  I  a  Machiavel  ?  " 
—  which  serves  as  oil  to  make  the  wheels  of  his  mind  run  smooth 
and  glib,  is  richly  characteristic,  both  of  himself  individually  and 
of  the  class  he  represents.  —  Sir  Hugh  Evans  is  an  odd  marriage 
of  the  ludicrous  and  the  respectable.  In  his  officious  simplicity 
he  moralizes  the  play  much  better,  doubtless,  than  a  wiser  man 
could  do  it.  The  scene  where,  in  expectation  of  the  fight  with 
the  French  doctor,  he  is  full  of  "  cholers,"  and  "  trempling  of 
mind,"  and  "  melancholies,"  and  has  "  a  great  dispositions  to  cry," 
and  strikes  up  a  lullaby  to  the  palpitations  of  his  heart  without 
seeming  to  know  it,  while  those  palpitations  in  turn  scatter  his 
memory  and  discompose  his  singing,  is  replete  with  a  quiet  deli- 
cacy of  humour,  hardly  to  be  surpassed.  It  is  quite  probable,  as 
haih  been  said,  that  both  he  and  Doctor  Caius  are  delineations, 
slightly  caricatured,  of  what  the  Poet  had  seen  and  con /ersed 
w:ih  ;  there  being  a  portrait-like  reality  and  effect  about  them, 
with  just  enough  infusion  of  the  ideal  to  lift  them  into  the  region 
•if  art. 

Hazlitt  boldly  pronounces  Shakespeare  "  the  only  writer  »vbo 


INTRODUCTION.  2 1 7 

ivas  as  great  in  describing  weakness  as  strength."  However  this 
may  be,  we  are  pretty  sure,  that  after  Falstaff  there  is  not  a  greater 
piece  of  work  in  the  play  than  Master  Abraham  Slender,  cousin 
to  Robert  Shallow  Esquire,  —  a  dainty  sprout,  or  rather  sapling, 
of  provincial  gentry,  who,  once  seen,  is  never  to  be  forgotten.  In 
his  consequential  verdancy,  his  aristocratic  official  boobyism,  and 
his  lean-witted,  lack-brain  originality,  this  pithless  hereditary 
squireling  is  altogether  inimitable  and  irresistible  ;  —  a  tall  though 
slender  specimen  of  most  effective  imbecility,  whose  manners  and 
character  must  needs  be  all  from  within,  because  he  lacks  force  of 
nature  enough  to  shape  or  dress  himself  by  anv  model.  Mr. 
Hallam,  whose  judgment  in  such  things  is  not  often  at  fault,  thinks 
Slender  was  intended  as  "  a  satire  on  the  brilliant  youth  of  the 
provinces,"  such  as  they  were  "  before  the  introduction  of  news- 
papers and  turnpike  roads ;  awkward  and  booby ish  among  civi 
people,  but  at  home  in  rude  sports,  and  proud  of  exploits  at  which 
the  town  would  laugh,  yet  perhaps  with  more  courage  and  good- 
nature than  the  laughers." 

Ford's  jealousy  is  managed  with  great  skill  so  as  to  help  on  the 
plot,  bringing  out  a  series  of  the  richest  incidents,  and  drawing 
the  most  savoury  issues  from  the  mellow,  juicy  old  sinner  upon 
whom  he  is  practising.  The  means  whereby  he  labours  to  justify 
his  passion,  spreading  temptations  and  then  concerting  surprises, 
are  quite  as  wicked  as  any  thing  Falstaff  does,  and  have,  besides, 
the  further  crime  of  exceeding  meanness ;  but  both  their  meannesn 
and  their  wickedness  are  of  the  kind  that  rarely  fail  to  be  their  own 
punishment.  The  way  in  which  his  passion  is  made  to  sting  and 
ash  him  into  reason,  aud  the  crafty  discretion  of  his  wife  in  glut- 
ting his  disease  and  thereby  making  an  opportunity  to  show  him 
what  sort  of  stuff  it  lives  on,  are  admirable  instances  of  the  wis- 
dom with  which  the  Poet  delights  to  underpin  his  most  fantastical 
creations.  The  counter-plottings,  also,  of  Page  and  his  wife  to 
sell  their  daughter  against  her  better  sense,  are  about  as  far  from 
virtue  as  the  worst  purposes  of  Sir  John ;  though  their  sins  are  of 
a  more  respectable  kind  than  to  expose  them  to  ridicule.  But  we 
are  the  more  willing  to  forget  their  unhandsome  practices  herein, 
because  of  their  good-natured  efforts  at  last  to  make  FalsUJf  for- 
get his  sad  miscarriages,  and  to  compose  whatsoever  vexations 
and  disquietudes  still  remain,  in  a  well-crowned  cup  of  social 
merriment.  —  Anne  Page  is  but  an  average  specimen  of  discreet, 
placid,  innocent  mediocrity,  yet  with  a  mind  of  her  own,  in  whom 
we  can  feel  no  such  interest  as  a  rich  father  causes  to  be  felt  by 
those  about  her.  In  her  and  Fenton  a  slight  dash  of  romance  u 
given  to  the  play  ;  their  love  forming  a  barely  audible  undertone 
of  poetry  in  the  grand  chorus  of  comicalities,  as  if  on  purpose 
that  while  the  sides  are  shaken  the  heart  may  not  be  left  altogether 
untouched. 


PERSONS  REPRESENTED. 


SIR  JOHN  FALSTAFF. 

FENTON. 

SHALLOW,  a  country  Justice. 

SLENDER,  Cousin  to  Shallow. 

MR.  FORD,  ) 

MR   PAGE     \  two  Gent'emen  dwelling  at  Windsor. 

WILLIAM  PAGE,  a  Boy,  Son  to  Mr.  Page. 

SIR  HUGH  EVANS,  a  Welch  Parson. 

DR.  CAIUS,  a  French  Physician. 

Host  of  the  Garter  Inn. 

BARDOLPH, ^ 

PISTOL,         V  Followers  of  Falstaff. 

NYM,  ) 

ROBIN,  Page  to  Falstaff. 

SIMPLE,  Servant  to  Slender. 

RUGBY,  Servant  to  Dr.  Caius. 

MRS.  FORD. 

MRS.  PAGE. 

ANNE  PAGE,  her  Daughter,  in  love  with  Fenton. 

MRS.  QUICKLY,  Servant  to  Dr.  Caius. 

Servants  to  Page,  Ford,  dtc. 
SCENE,  Windsor,  and  the  Parts  adjacent. 


MERRY  WIYES  OF  WINDSOR 


ACT  1 

SCENE    I.     Windsor.     Before  PAGE'S  House. 

Enter  Justice  SHALLOW,  SLENDER,  and 
Sir  HUGH  EVANS. 

ShaL  SIR  HUGH,'  persuade  me  not ;  I  will  make 
a  Star-chamber 2  matter  of  it :  if  he  were  twenty 
Sir  John  Falstaffs,  he  shall  not  abuse  Robert  Shal 
low,  Esquire. 

Slen.  In  the  county  of  Gloster,  justice  of  peace, 
and  coram.3 

ShaL  Ay,  cousin  Slender,  and  cust-alorum. 

4  Sir  was  formerly  applied  to  the  inferior  clergy  as  well  as  to 
knights.  Fuller  in  his  Church  History  says :  "  Such  priests  as 
have  Sir  before  their  Christian  name  were  men  not  graduated  in 
the  university  ;  being  in  orders,  but  not  in  degrees  5  while  others, 
entitled  '  masters/  had  commenced  in  the  arts.1'  Besides  Sir 
Hugh,  Shakespeare  has  Sir  Oliver  Mar-text,  the  Vicar,  in  As 
You  Like  It,  Sir  Topas  in  Twelfth  Night,  and  Sir  Nathaniel,  the 
Curate,  in  Love's  Labour's  Lost.  H. 

8  The  old  court  of  Star-Chamber  had  cognizance  of  such  cases. 
Thus  in  Jouson's  Magnetic  Lady,  Act  iii.  sc.  3 :  "  There  is  a  court 
above,  of  the  Star-chamber,  to  punish  routs  and  riots."  H. 

3  Coram  is  a  corruption  of  quorum.  A  justice  of  quorum  was 
so  called  from  the  words  in  the  commission,  Quorum  A.  unum 
use  volumus  ;  and  as  there  could  be  no  quorum,  that  is,  nothing 
could  be  done,  without  him,  of  course  he  had  greater  dignity  than 
the  others.  Cust-alorum,  in  the  next  line,  is  the  sapient  Shallow's 
abbreviation  of  custos  rotulorum,  keeper  of  the  rolls  or  records 
Slender,  not  understanding  this,  adds,  "  and  ratolorum  too.'1 
Shallow's  official  attestation  was,  Coram  me,  Roberto  Shallow, 
armigero:  and  his  slender  nephew,  speaking  by  the  book,  puts 
the  ablative,  armigero,  for  the  nominative,  armiger,  esquire.  H. 


220  MERRY     WIVES  ACT  1. 

Slen.  Ay,  and  ratolorum  too ;  and  a  gentlemai 
born,  master  parson ;  who  writes  himself  armigero ; 
in  any  bill,  warrant,  quittance,  or  obligation,  armi- 
gero. 

ShaL  Ay,  that  I  do ;  and  have  done  any  time 
these  three  hundred  years.4 

SltiL  All  his  successors,  gone  before  him,  hath 
done't;  and  all  his  ancestors,  that  come  after  liim, 
may :  they  may  give  the  dozen  white  luces  in  their 
coat. 

Shal.  It  is  an  old  coat. 

Eva.  The  dozen  white  louses  do  become  an  old 
coat  well ;  it  agrees  well,  passant :  it  is  a  familiar 
beast  to  man,  and  signifies  love. 

Shal.  The  luce  is  the  fresh  fish ;  the  salt  fish  is 
an  old  coat.6 

4  Shallow  here  identifies  himself  with  "  all  his  successors  gone 
before  him ;  "  an  aristocratic  way  of  speaking  once  common  in 
England,  and  not  wholly  laid  aside  yet.     Washington  Allston  was 
once  the  guest  of  an  English  nobleman  who,  though  Shallow  in 
nothing  else,  said  he  came  over  with  William   the  Conqueror. 
We  are  indebted  to  Mr.  Verplanck  for  this  anecdote,  and  also  for 
the  information  that  Shallow's  mode  of  speech,  though  common, 
is  characteristic  of  him.  H. 

5  This  passage  is  exceedingly  obscure,  and  perhaps  no  expla 
nation  can  make  it  clear.     Shallow  is  allowed  on  all  hands  to  he 
a  satire  on  Sir  Thomas  Lucy,  the  Poet's  old  Stratford  enemy, 
whose  coat-of-arms  bore  three  luces,  not  a  dozen,  as  stated  by 
Slender;    though  one  of  the  family  had  a  coat  marked  in  four 
divisions,  with  three   luces  in  each.     Luce  is  the  old  name  for 
pike,  of  which  there  were  two  kinds,  the  fresh-water  and  the  salt- 
water pike.     The  most  probable  explanation,  then,  seems  to  be 
this  :  In  the  first  place  Slender  blunders,  calling  them  white  luces, 
white  being  apparently  used  to  denote  the  fresh-water  pike ;  and 
Shallow,  proud  of  his  ancestry  and  therefore  scorning  the  white 
luce,  the  fresh  fish,  corrects  this  blunder  by  saying,  "  It  is  an  old 
coat,"  inferring  that,  because  it  is  old,  therefore  it  has  the  salt- 
water fish,  not  the  fresh.     Then  Sir  Hugh  makes  a  double  blun- 
der, giving-  a  white  luce  to  an  old  coat,  and  mistaking  luce  foi 
louse.,  the  "  familiar  beast  to  man."     And  finally  Shallow  blun- 
ders, mistaking  Sir  Hugh's  "  familiar  beast  "  for  the  white  luce 


»C.  U  OF    WINDSOR.  22  . 

Slen.  I  may  quarter,  coz  1 

Shctl.  You  may,  by  marrying. 

Eva.  It  is  marring  indeed,  if  he  quarter  it. 

ShaL  Not  a  whit. 

Eva.  Yes,  py 'r-lady ;  if  he  has  a  quarter  of  your 
coat,8  there  is  but  three  skirts  for  yourself,  in  my 
simple  conjectures  :  but  that  is  all  one.  If  Sir  John 
Falstaff  have  committed  disparagements  unto  you, 
I  am  of  the  church,  and  will  be  glad  to  do  my  be- 
nevolence, to  make  atonements  and  compremisea 
between  you. 

Shal.  The  Council  shall  hear  it :  it  is  a  not. 

Eva,  It  is  not  meet  the  Council  hear  a  riot ;  there 
is  no  fear  of  Got  in  a  riot :  the  Council,  look  you, 
shall  desire  to  hear  the  fear  of  Got,  and  not  to  hear 
a  riot :  take  your  vizaments 7  in  that. 

Shal.  Ha  !  o'  my  life,  if  I  were  young  again,  the 
sword  should  end  it. 

Eva.  It  is  petter  that  friends  is  the  sword,  and 
end  it :  and  there  is  also  another  device  in  my  prain, 
which,  peradventure,  prings  goot  discretions  with  it : 
There  is  Anne  Page,  which  is  daughter  to  master 
George  Page,  which  is  pretty  virginity. 

Slen.  Mistress  Anne  Page  ?  She  has  brown  hair, 
and  speaks  small  like  a  woman.8 

and  proceeds  to  correct  him  by  saying,  "  The  luce  "  (that  is,  the 
louse)  that  you  speak  of  "  is  the  fresh  fish,"  and  so  does  not 
"  become  an  old  coat  well,"  such  as  mine  is  :  for  "  the  salt  fish  is 
an  old  coat."  a. 

*  To  quarter  meant,  in    heraldic   language,  to  have  armorial 
bearings  as  an  appendage   to  hereditary  arms  ;   as   a  man,  bj 
marrying,  may  add  his  wife's  titles,  if  she  have  any,  to  his  own. 
Sir  Hugh,  who  must  still  be  talking,  however  ignorant  he  may  be 
of  the  matter  in  question,  goes  on  from  blunder  to  blunder,  mis- 
taking coat-of-arms  for  coat,  and  the  quartering  of  heraldry  for 
(he  cutting  of  a  thing  into  four  parts.  H. 

*  Advisement. 

*  To  speak  small  means  much  the  same  as  what  old  Lear  so 


SERS  MERRY    WIVEb  Ar.T  I. 

Eva.  It  is  that  fery  person  for  all  the  'or  Id,  as 
just  as  you  will  desire ;  and  seven  hundred  pounds 
of  monies,  and  gold,  and  silver,  is  her  grandsire, 
upon  his  death's  bed,  (Got  deliver  to  a  joyful  resur- 
rections!) give,  when  she  is  able  to  overtake  seven- 
teen years  old:  it  were  a  goot  motion,  if  we  leave 
our  pribbles  and  prabbles,  and  desire  a  marriage 
between  master  Abraham  and  mistress  Anne  Page. 

Slen.9  Did  her  grandsire  leave  her  seven  hundred 
pound  1 

Eva.  Ay,  and  her  father  is  make  her  a  petter 
penny. 

Slen.  I  know  the  young  gentlewoman ;  she  has 
good  gifts. 

Eva.  Seven  hundred  pounds,  and  possibilities,  is 
goot  gifts. 

Shal.  Well,  let  us  see  honest  master  Page :  Is 
Falstaff  there  1 

Eva.  Shall  1  tell  you  a  lie  ?  I  do  despise  a  liar, 
as  1  do  despise  one  that  is  false ;  or,  as  I  despise 
one  that  is  not  true.  The  knight,  Sir  John,  is  there ; 
and,  I  beseech  you,  be  ruled  by  your  well-willers. 
I  will  peat  the  door  [Knocks]  for  master  Page. 
What,  hoa !  Got  pless  your  house  here  ! 

touchingly  says  over  his  dying  Cordelia :  "  Her  voice  was  evel 
soft,  gentle,  and  low ;  an  excellent  thing  in  woman."  So  also  in 
Chaucer : 

"  The  company  answered  all, 
With  voice  sweet  entuned,  and  so  small, 
That  methought  it  the  sweetest  melody."  H. 

•  In  the  modem  editions  this  and  the  following  speeches  of 
Slender  are  strangely  taken  away  from  him  and  given  to  Shallow. 
There  being  no  apparent  cause  why  they  should  not  belong  to  the 
owner,  we  concur  with  Collier  and  Verplanck  in  restoring  them  at 
they  are  in  the  original.  It  seems  to  be  a  part  of  Slender's  char- 
acter, that  his  fai.cy  begins  to  take  fire  as  soon  as  he  learns  the 
gin  in  ncu  H. 


SC    I  OK    W1NDSOB  223 

Enter  PAGE. 

Page.  Who's  there  1 

Eva.  Here  is  Got's  plessing,  and  your  friend, 
and  justice  Shallow:  and  here  young  master  Slen- 
der ;  that,  preadventures,  shall  tell  you  another  tale, 
if  matters  grow  to  your  likings. 

Page.  I  am  glad  to  see  your  worships  well :  I 
thank  you  for  my  venison,  master  Shallow. 

Shal.  Master  Page,  I  am  glad  to  see  you  :  Much 
good  do  it  your  good  heart !  I  wish'd  your  venison 
better  ;  it  was  ill  kill'd  :  —  How  doth  good  mistress 
Page  1  —  and  I  thank  you  always  with  my  heart, 
la  ;  with  my  heart. 

Page.  Sir,  I  thank  you. 

Shal.  Sir,  1  thank  you ;  by  yea  and  no,  1  do. 

Page.  I  am  glad  to  see  you,  good  master  Slender. 

Slen.  How  does  your  fallow  greyhound,  sir!  I 
heard  say,  he  was  outrun  on  Cotsall.10 

Page.  It  could  not  be  judg'd,  sir. 

Slen.  You'll  not  confess,  you'll  not  confess. 

Shal.  That  he  will  not ;  —  'tis  your  fault,  'tis  your 
fault : "  —  'Tis  a  good  dog. 

Page.  A  cur,  sir. 

Shal.  Sir,  he's  a  good  dog,  and  a  fair  dog ;  can 


10  The  Cotswold  hills  in  Gloucestershire  were  once  quite  fa- 
mous for  rural  sports.  Shallow  in  Henry  IV.  speaks  of  "  Will 
Squcle,  a  Cotswold  man  ;"  as  if  it  were  something  of  a  distirc- 
tiou  to  be  born  there.  Perhaps  it  was  the  Cotswold  games  that  edu- 
cated Will  up  into  that  remarkable  company  of  which  the  Justice 
says,  "  You  had  not  four  such  swinge-bucklers  in  all  the  inns  of 
court  again."  We  learn  from  Warton  that  these  games  con- 
tinued till  "  the  grand  Rebellion  broke  up  every  liberal  establish 
ment."  H. 

M  Fault  was  anciently  much  used  for  misfortune.  Shallow 
Mere  very  politely  tries  to  arrest  the  unplcusc  ut  course  of  speecfc 
which  Slender  persists  in  taking.  B 


224  MERRY     WIVES  ACT   I 

there  be  more  said  ?  lie  is  good,  and  fair.  -  Is  Sir 
John  Falstaff  here  1 

Page.  Sir,  he  is  within ;  and  I  would  I  could  do 
a  good  office  between  you. 

Eva.  It  is  spoke  as  a  Christians  ought  to  speak. 

Shal.  He  hath  wrong'd  me,  master  Page. 

Page.  Sir,  he  doth  in  some  sort  confess  it. 

SJial.  If  it  be  confessed,  it  is  not  redressed :  is  not 
that  so,  master  Page  1  He  hath  wrong'd  me ;  indeed 
he  hath ;  —  at  a  word,  he  hath ;  —  believe  me  :  — 
Robert  Shallow,  Esquire,  saith  he  is  wronged. 

Page.  Here  comes  Sir  John. 

Enter  Sir  JOHN  FALSTAFF,  BARDOLPH,  NYM,  and 
PISTOL. 

Fal.  Now,  master  Shallow ;  you'll  complain  oi 
me  to  the  king  ? 

Shal.  Knight,  you  have  beaten  my  men,  kill'd 
my  deer,  and  broke  open  my  lodge. 

Fal.  But  not  kiss'd  your  keeper's  daughter  ?  I2 

Shal.  Tut,  a  pin  !  this  shall  be  answer'd. 

Fal.  I  will  answer  it  straight ;  —  I  have  done  all 
this :  —  That  is  now  answer'd. 

Shal.  The  Council  shall  know  this. 

FaL  'Twere  better  for  you,  if  it  wore  known  in 
counsel:  you'll  be  laugh'd  at. 

Eva.  Pauca  verba,  Sir  John ;  goot  worts. 

FaL  Good  worts?13  good  cabbage  !  —  Slender,  I 
broke  your  head :  What  matter  have  you  against  me  1 

11  Scott  in  Kenilworth  suggests  that  this  was  part  of  the  charge 
made  against  the  Poet  by  Sir  Thomas  Lucy.  Council  and  coun- 
sel, just  below,  are  probably  a  quibble,  the  one  meaning  the  Star- 
Chamber,  the  other  being  used  in  the  sense  of  secrery.  Sir 
Thomas  seems  to  have  gained  nothing  by  his  proceedings  against 
the  Poet  but  the  honour  of  being  "  laughed  at."  H. 

18  Worts  was  the  ancient  term  lor  all  the  cabbage  kind. 


SC.  I.  OF    WINDSOR.  iKJo 

SI.en.  Marry,  sir,  I  have  matter  in  my  head  against 
you;  and  against  your  coney-catching14  rascals, 
Bardolph,  Nym,  and  Pistol.  They  carried  me  to 
the  tavern,  and  made  me  drunk,  and  afterwards 
pick'd  my  pocket. 

Bar,  You  Banbury  cheese  ! 15 

Slen.  Ay,  it  is  no  matter. 

Pist.  How  now,  Mephostophilus  ?  " 

Slen.  Ay,  it  is  no  matter. 

Nym.  Slice,  I  say  !  pauca,  pauca  ;  "  slice  !  that  s 
my  humour. 

Slen.  Where's  Simple,  my  man  1  —  can  you  tell, 
cousin  ? 

Eva.  Peace  !  I  pray  you.  Now  let  us  under- 
stand :  There  is  three  umpires  in  this  matter,  as  I 
understand  ;  that  is  —  master  Page,  Jidelicet,  master 
Page ;  and  there  is  myself,  Jidelicet,  myself ;  and 
the  three  party  is,  lastly  and  finally,  mine  Host  of 
the  Garter. 

Page.  We  three,  to  hear  it,  and  end  it  between 
them. 

Eva.  Fery  goot :  I  will  make  a  prief  of  it  in  my 
note-book  ;  and  we  will  afterwards  'ork  upon  the 
cause  with  as  great  discreetly  as  we  can. 

Fal.  Pistol,— 

Pist.  He  hears  with  ears. 

Eva.  The  tevil  and  his  tarn  !  what  phrase  is  this, 
*«  He  hears  with  ear  I  "  Why,  it  is  affectations. 

14  A  common  name  for  cheats  and  sharpers  in  the  time  of  Eliza 
beth. 

15  Said  in  allusion  to  the  thin  carcass  of  Slender.     So,  in  Jack 
Drum's  Entertainment,  1601  :  "  Put  off  your  clothes,  and  you  are 
like  a  Banbury  Cheese,  nothing  but  paring." 

14  The  name  of  a  spirit,  or  familiar,  in  the  old  story  book  of 
Faustus  :  to  whom  there  is  another  allusion  Act  ii.  sc.  ~.  It  wa* 
a  cant  phrase,  probably  for  an  ugly  fellow. 

17  1  ew  words 


236  MERRY    WIVES  ACT   I 

Fal.  Pistol,  did  you  pick  master  Slender's  purse  1 

Slen.  Ay,  by  these  gloves,  did  he,  (or  I  would  I 
might  never  come  in  mine  own  great  chamber  again 
else,)  of  seven  groats  in  mill-sixpences,  and  two 
Edward  shovel-boards,18  that  cost  me  two  shilling 
and  two  pence  a-piece  of  Yed  Miller,  by  these  gloves. 

Fal  Is  this  true,  Pistol  1 

Eva.  No     it  is  false,  if  it  is  a  pick-purse. 

Pist.  Ha,  thou  mountain-foreigner  !  —  Sir  John 

and  master  mine, 

I  combat  challenge  of  this  lattin  bilbo  : 19 
Word  of  denial  in  thy  labras  here  ; 20 
Word  of  denial :  froth  and  scum,  thou  liest. 

Slen.  By  these  gloves,  then  'twas  he. 

Nym.  Be  avis'd,  sir,  and  pass  good  humours  :  1 
will  say,  "  marry  trap,"  with  you,  if  you  run  the 
nuthook's 21  humour  on  me ;  that  is  the  very  note 
of  it. 

Slen.  By  this  hat,  then  he  in  the  red  face  had  it : 
for  though  I  cannot  remember  what  I  did  when  you 
made  me  drunk,  yet  I  am  not  altogether  an  ass. 

Fal.  What  say  you,  Scarlet  and  John  ? 

Bard.  Why,  sir,  for  my  part,  I  say  the  gentle 
man  had  drunk  liimself  out  of  his  five  sentences. 

Eva.  It  is  his  five  senses :  fie,  what  the  igno 
ranee  is ! 

13  Mill  sixpences  were  used  as  counters  ;  and  King  Edward's 
shill.ugs  used  in  the  game  of  shuffle-board. 

19  Another  allusion  to  Slender's  slenderncss.  Bilbo  is  from 
Bilbao.,  in  Spain,  where  fine  swords  were  made :  and  lattin  is  a 
mixture  of  copper  and  calamine,  made  into  thin  plates.  The  word 
is  used  in  the  north  of  England  for  tin.  H. 

*°  "  Word  of  denial  in  thy  labras  "  is  the  same  as,  "  the  lie  in 
thy  teeth."  Labras  is  a  Pistolism  for  lips.  H. 

fl  That  is,  if  you  say  I  am  a  thief;  the  nuthook  being  used  bv 
thieves  to  hook  things  out  of  a  window.  Marry  tu.p  seems  to 
Dave  been  a  word  of  triumph  upon  seeing  one  caught  in  his  own 
ware.  H 


BC.  I.  OF    WINDSOR.  '427 

Bard,  And  being  fap,zs  sir,  was,  as  they  say, 
cashier'd ;  and  so  conclusions  pass'd  the  carieres,21 

Slcn.  Ay,  you  spake  in  Latin  then  too  ;  but  'tis 
no  matter.  I'll  ne'er  be  drunk  whilst  I  live  again, 
but  in  honest,  civil,  godly  company,  for  this  trick : 
If  1  be  drunk,  I'll  be  drunk  with  those  that  have 
the  fear  of  God,  and  not  with  drunken  knaves. 

Eva.  So  Got  'udge  me,  that  is  a  virtuous  mind. 

FaL  You  hear  all  these  matters  denied,  gentle- 
men ;  you  hear  it. 

Enter  ANNE  PAGE,  uritk  urine;  Mrs.  FORD  and  Mrs, 
PAGE  following. 

Page.  Nay,  daughter,  carry  the  wine  in ;  we'D 
drink  witliin.  [Exit  ANNE  PAGE 

Slen.  O  heaven  !  this  is  mistress  Anne  Page. 

Page.  How  now,  mistress  Ford  1 

FaL  Mistress  Ford,  by  my  troth,  you  are  very 
well  met :  by  your  leave,  good  mistress. 

[Kissing  her. 

Page.  Wife,  bid  these  gentlemen  welcome  :  — 
Come,  we  have  a  hot  venison  pasty  to  dinner ; 
come,  gentlemen,  I  hope  we  shall  drink  down  all 
unkindness. 

[Exeunt  all  but  SHAL.,  SLEN.,  and  EVANS. 

Slen.  I  had  rather  than  forty  shillings  I  had  my 
book  of  Songs  and  Sonnets84  here  :  — 

•*  Fap  was  a  cant  word  of  the  time,  meaning  fuddled.        H. 

43  Cariere,  according  to  Baret,  was  "  the  short  turning  of  • 
nimble  horse,  now  this  way,  now  that  way."  The  application  her« 
is  probably  too  deep  for  any  body  but  Bardolph  ;  unless  it  refei 
io  the  reeling  of  a  drunken  man,  now  this  way,  now  that.  Slen- 
der mistook  Pistol's  lattin  for  Latin  ;  and  he  now  thinks  that  Bar 
dolph  speaks  the  same  language.  H. 

M  Slender    means    a    popular    book    of  Shakespeare's    time 


228  MERRY    WIVES  ACT  1 

Enter  SIMPLE. 

How  now,  Simple!  where  have  you  been?  I  must 
wait  on  myself,  must  1 1  You  have  not  the  Book 
of  Riddles  about  you,  have  you  1 

Sim.  Book  of  Riddles !  why,  did  you  not  lend  it 
to  Alice  Shortcake  upon  Allhallowmas  last,  a  foit- 
night  afore  Michaelmas  1 2S 

ShaL  Come,  coz ;  come,  coz  ;  we  stay  for  you. 
A  word  with  you,  coz  ;  marry,  this,  coz  :  There  is, 
as  'twere,  a  tender,  a  kind  of  tender,  made  afar  off 
by  Sir  Hugh  here  :  —  Do  you  understand  me  1 

Slen.  Ay,  sir,  you  shall  find  me  reasonable  :  if  it 
be  so,  I  shall  do  that  that  is  reason. 

ShaL  Nay,  but  understand  me. 

Slen.  So  I  do,  sir. 

Eva,  Give  ear  to  his  motions,  master  Slender  :  1 
will  description  the  matter  to  you,  if  you  be  capacity 
of  it. 

Slen.  Nay,  I  will  do  as  my  cousin  Shallow  says  : 
I  pray  you,  pardon  me  ;  he's  a  justice  of  peace  in 
his  country,  simple  though  I  stand  here. 

Eva.  But  this  is  not  the  question  :  the  question 
is  concerning  your  marriage. 

ShaL  Ay,  there's  the  point,  sir. 

Eva.  Marry,  is  it ;  the  very  point  of  it ;  to  mis- 
tress Anne  Page. 

Slen.  Why,  if  it  be  so,  I  will  marry  her  upon  any 
reasonable  demands. 

Eva.  But  can  you  affection  the  'oman  1  Let  ua 
command  to  know  that  of  your  mouth,  or  of  your 

"  Sanges  and  Sonnettes,  written  by  the  Earle  of  Surrey  an^ 
others." 

15  This  is  an  intended  blunder.     Theobald  would  in  sober  sad 
n«ss  have  corrected  it  to  Martlemaa . 


BC.  L  OF    WINDSOR.  229 

lips;  for  divers  pnilosophers  hold  that  the  lips  i* 
parcel*8  of  the  mouth:  —  Therefore,  precisely,  can 
you  carry  your  good  will  to  the  maid  ? 

SJiaL  Cousin  Abraham  Slender,  can  you  love  her  ? 

Slen.  I  hope,  sir,  —  I  will  do  as  it  shall  become 
one  that  would  do  reason. 

Eva.  Nay,  Got's  lords  and  his  ladies !  you  must 
speak  possitable,  if  you  can  carry  her  your  desires 
towards  her. 

Shal.  That  you  must :  Will  you,  upon  good 
dowry,  marry  her? 

Slen.  I  will  do  a  greater  thing  than  that,  upon 
your  request,  cousin,  in  any  reason. 

SJiaL  Nay,  conceive  me,  conceive  me,  sweet  coz ; 
what  I  do  is  to  pleasure  you,  coz :  Can  you  love 
the  maid  ? 

Slen.  I  will  marry  her,  sir,  at  your  request ;  but 
if  there  be  no  great  love  in  the  beginning,  yet  heaven 
may  decrease  it  upon  better  acquaintance,  when  we 
are  married,  and  have  more  occasion  to  know  one 
another :  I  hope  upon  familiarity  will  grow  more 
content :  *7  but  if  you  say,  "marry  her,"  I  will  marry 
her ;  that  I  am  freely  dissolved,  and  dissolutely. 

Eva.  It  is  a  fery  discretion  answer;  save  the 
faul'  i?  in  the  'ort  dissolutely  :  the  'ort  is,  accord- 
ing to  our  meaning,  resolutely :  —  His  meaning  is 
good. 

Sfutl.  Ay,  I  think  my  cousin  meant  well. 

Slen.  Ay,  or  else  I  would  I  might  be  hang'd,  la. 

*  That  is,  part ;  a  law  term,  often  used  in  conjunction  with  its 
synonyme. 

87  Content  in  the  original,  but  generally  altered  to  contempt  ii 
modern  editions.  But  the  change  is  needless,  as  Slender  prob- 
ably mistakes  the  word,  and  thence  falls  into  a  misapplication  of 
the  proverb.  a 


230  MERRY     WIVES  ACT  I. 

Re-enter  ANNE  PAGE. 
Here  comes  fair  mistress  Anne  :  —  Woula 


I  were  young  for  your  sake,  mistress  Anne  ! 

Anne.  The  dinner  is  on  the  table  ;  my  father  de- 
ares  yout  worships'  company. 

SlidL  I  will  wait  on  him,  fair  mistress  Anne. 

Eva.  Od's  plessed  will  !  I  will  not  be  absence  at 
the  grace.  [Exeunt  SHAL.  and  EVANS. 

Anne.  Will't  please  your  worship  to  come  in,  sir  1 

Slen.  No,  I  thank  you,  forsooth,  heartily  ;  I  am 
r  ery  well. 

Anne.  The  diuner  attends  you,  sir. 

Slen.  I  am  not  a-hungry,  I  thank  you,  forsooth  : 
Go,  sirrah,  for  all  you  are  my  man,  go,  wait  upon 
my  cousin  Shallow.88  [Exit  SIMPLE.]  A  justice  of 
peace  sometime  may  be  beholden  to  his  friend  for  a 
man.  —  I  keep  but  three  men  and  a  boy  yet,  till  my 
mother  be  dead  :  But  what  though  7  yet  I  live  like 
a  poor  gentleman  born. 

Anne.  I  may  not  go  in  without  your  worship: 
they  will  not  sit  till  you  come. 

Slen.  I'faith,  I'll  eat  nothing;  I  thank  you  as 
much  as  though  I  did. 

Anne.  I  pray  you,  sir,  walk  in. 

Slen.  I  had  rather  walk  here,  I  thank  you  :  1 
bruis'd  my  shin  the  other  day  with  playing  at  sword 
and  dagger  with  a  master  of  fence,  three  veneys  Si 
for  a  dish  of  stew'd  prunes  ;  and,  by  my  troth,  I 

88  It  was  formerly  the  custom  in  England  for  persons  to  be 
attended  at  dinner  by  their  own  servants  wherever  they  dined. 

**  Master  of  fence  here  signifies  not  merely  a  fencing-mastei 
but  a  person  who  had  taken  his  master's  degree  in  the  science 
There  were  three  degrees,  a  master's,  a  provost's,  and  a  scholar's  . 
For  each  of  these  a  prize  was  played  with  various  weapons,  ii 
some  open  place  or  square.      Veney  means  a  bout,  or  a  come-on 
from  the  French  venir. 


8C.  I.  OF    WINDSOR.  '/231 

cannot  abide  the  smell  of  hot  meat  since.  Why  do 
your  dogs  bark  so  ?  be  there  bears  i'  the  town  ? 

Anne.  I  think  there  are,  sir ;  I  heard  them 
talk'd  of. 

Slen.  I  love  the  sport  well ;  but  I  shall  as  soon 
quarrel  at  it  as  any  man  in  England :  —  You  are 
afraid,  if  you  see  the  bear  loose,  are  you  not  ? 

Anne.  Ay,  indeed,  sir. 

Slcn.  That's  meat  and  drink  to  me  now :  I  have 
seen  Sackerson 30  loose  twenty  times ;  and  have 
taken  him  by  the  chain :  but,  I  warrant  you,  the 
women  have  so  cried  and  shriek'd  at  it,  that  it 
pass'd  : 31  —  But  women,  indeed,  cannot  abide  'em ; 
they  are  very  ill-favour'd  rough  tilings. 

Re-enter  PAGE. 

Page.  Come,  gentle  master  Slender,  come;  we 
stay  for  you. 

Slen.  I'll  eat  nothing ;  I  thank  you,  sir. 

Page.  By  cock  and  pye,3*  you  shall  not  choose, 
sir:  come,  come. 

Slen.  Nay,  pray  you,  lead  the  way. 

Page.  Come  on,  sir. 

*°  The  name  of  a  bear  exhibited  at  Paris  Garden,  in  Southwark 

*'  That  is,  passed  all  expression. 

M  This  phrase  occurs  in  several  old  plays,  and  once  again  in 
Shakespeare,  2  Henry  IV.,  Act  v.  sc.  1 ;  but  its  origin  and  impor'. 
have  not  been  satisfactorily  explained.  The  most  likely  account 
seems  to  be,  that  it  was  a  humorous  oath,  the  Cock  and  Mag- 
pie being  an  ancient  and  favourite  alehouse  sign.  Some  think, 
however,  that  cock  was  a  corruption  of  the  sacred  Name,  and  that 
pye  referred  to  a  table  in  the  old  Roman  Offices,  showing  the 
service  for  the  day.  That  the  phrase  was  not  so  understood,  may 
be  gathered  from  "  A  Catechisme  containing  the  Summe  of  Reli- 
gion," by  George  Giffard,  1583 :  "  Men  suppose  that  they  do  nol 
offend  when  they  do  not  swear  falsely ;  and  because  they  will  no' 
lake  the  name  of  God  to  abuse  it,  they  swear  by  small  things 
»s  hy  cock  and  pye,  bv  the  mousefoot.  and  many  such  like  H 


232  MERRY    WIVES  ACT   I 

Slen.  Mistress  Anne,  yourself  shall  go  first. 

Anne.  Not  I,  sir ;  pray  you,  keep  on. 

Slen.  Truly,  I  will  not  go  first :  truly,  la,  I  will 
not  do  you  that  wrong. 

Anne.  I  pray  you,  sir. 

Slen.  I'll  rather  be  unmannerly  than  troublesome 
You  do  yourself  wrong,  indeed,  la.  [Exeunt, 

SCENE    H.     The  same. 

Enter  Sir  HUGH  EVANS  and  SIMPLE. 

Eva.  Go  your  ways,  and  ask  of  Doctor  Caius1 
house,  which  is  the  way:1  and  there  dwells  one 
mistress  Quickly,  which  is  in  the  manner  of  liis 
nurse,  or  his  dry  nurse,  or  his  cook,  or  his  laundry, 
his  washer,  and  bis  wringer. 

Simp.  Well,  sir. 

Eva.  Nay,  it  is  petter  yet :  —  Give  her  this  let- 
ter ;  for  it  is  a  'oman  that  altogether's  acquaintance 
with  mistress  Anne  Page :  and  the  letter  is,  to  desire 
and  require  her  to  solicit  your  master's  desires  to 
mistress  Anne  Page  :  I  pray  you,  be  gone.  I  will 
make  an  end  of  my  dinner :  there's  pippins  and 
oheese  to  come.  [Exawi 

SCENE    III.     A  Room  in  the  Garter  Inn. 

Enter  FALSTAFF,  Host,  BARDOLPH,  NYM,  PISTOL, 
and  ROBIN. 

Fal.  Mine  Host  of  the  Garter ! 
Host.  What  says  my  bully-rook  1  1   Speak  schol- 
arly, and  wisely. 

1  That  is,  "  ask  which  is  the  way  to  Doctor  Caius'  hous«. 
Laundry,  a  little  after,  is  Sir  Hugh's  blunder  for  laundress.    H. 
1   Bully-rook 'appears  to  he  mine  Host's  can!  term  for  a  shar-pr 


NC.  III.  OF    WINDSOR.  j 

Fal.  Truly,  mine  Host,  I  must  turn  away  some 
of  my  followers. 

Host.  Discard,  bully  Hercules  ;  cashier :  let  then' 
wag  ;  trot,  trot. 

Fal.  I  sit  at  ten  pounds  a  week. 

Host.  Thou'rt  an  emperor,  Csesar,  Keisar,  and 
Pheezar.2  I  will  entertain  Bardolph ;  he  shall  draw, 
he  shall  tap  :  said  I  well,  bully  Hector  ? 

FaL  Do  so,  good  mine  Host. 

Host.  I  have  spoke ;  let  him  follow.  Let  me  see 
thee  froth,  and  lime  :  3  I  am  at  a  word ;  follow. 

[Exit  Host. 

FaL  Bardolph,  follow  him  :  A  tapster  is  a  good 
trade :  an  old  cloak  makes  a  new  jerkin  ;  a  wither'd 
servingman,  a  fresh  tapster  :  Go  ;  adieu. 

Bard.  It  is  a  life  that  I  have  desir'd :  I  will  thrive. 

[Exit  BARD. 

Pist.  O  base  Hungarian  wight ! 4  wilt  thou  the 
spigot  wield  1 

Nym.  He  was  gotten  in  drink :  Is  not  the  humour 
conceited?  His  mind  is  not  heroic,  and  there's  the 
humour  of  it. 

*  Keisar  is  an  old  form  of  Caesar,  the  general  word  for  an 
emperor;  Kings  and  Keisars  being  a  common  phrase.  The 
meaning  of  Pheezar  is  uncertain.  Maloue  derives  it  from  pheeze, 
to  whip,  or  to  beat,  and  so  used  in  the  Induction  to  The  Taming 
of  The  Shrew.  H. 

3  To  froth  beer  and  to  lime  sack  were  tapsters'  tricks.     Mr. 
Steevens  says  the  first  was  done  by  putting  soap  in  the  bottom  of 
the  tankard ;  the  other  by  mixing  lime  with  the  wine  to  make  ir 
sparkle  in  the  glass. 

4  So  in  the  folio  of  1623.     The  common  reading  is  Gongarian, 
taken  from  the  quarto  of  1602.     Hungarian  means  p  gipsy,  and 
is  .equivalent  to  the  Bohemian  of  Quentin  Durward.     Bishop  Hall 
in  his  Satires  has  the  pun,  — 

"  So  sharp  and  meagre  tf  at  who  should  them  see, 

Would  swear  they  lately  came  from  Hungary  ;  "  — 
which  infers  that  Hungarian  was  used  for  a  hungry,  starvoi  fol 
low.  H 


234  MERRY    WIVES  ACT   I 

Fal.  I  am  glad  I  am  so  acquit  of  this  tinderbox. 
his  thefts  were  too  open ;  his  filching  was  like  au 
unskilful  singer,  he  kept  not  time. 

Nym.  The  good  humour  is,  to  steal  at  *»  minim'fi 
rest. 

Pist.  Convey,  the  wise  it  call :  Steal !  foh ;  a 
fico  5  for  the  phrase  ! 

Fal.  Well,  sirs,  I  am  almost  out  at  heels. 

Pist.  Why  then  let  kibes  ensue. 

Fal.  There  is  no  remedy ;  I  must  coney-catch ; 
f  must  shift. 

Pist.  Young  ravens  must  have  food. 

Fal.  Which  of  you  know  Ford  of  this  town  1 

Pist.  I  ken  the  wight:  he  is  of  substance  good. 

Fal.  My  honest  lads,  I  will  tell  you  what  I  am 
about. 

Pist.  Two  yards,  and  more. 

Fal.  No  quips  now,  Pistol :  indeed  I  am  in  the 
waist  two  yards  about ;  but  I  am  now  about  no 
waste ;  I  am  about  thrift.  Briefly,  I  do  mean  to 
make  love  to  Ford's  wife :  I  spy  entertainment  in 
her ;  she  discourses,  she  carves,6  she  gives  the  leer 
of  invitation  :  I  can  construe  the  action  of  her  famil- 
iar style,  and  the  hardest  voice  of  her  behaviour,  to 
he  English'd  rightly,  is,  "  I  am  Sir  John  Falstaff's." 

Pist.  He  hath  studied  her  well,  and  translated 
her  will  out  of  honesty  into  English. 

Nym.  The  anchor  is  deep :  will  that  humour  pass  1 

Fal.  Now,  the  report  goes,  she  lias  all  the  rule  of 
her  husband's  purse ;  he  hath  legions  of  angels.7 

5  Fico  is  a  Pistolism  for  Jig.  H. 

e  It  seems  to  have  been  a  mark  of  kindness  when  a  lady  carved 
to  a  gentleman.  So,  in  Vittoria  Corombona :  "  Your  husband  is 
wondrous  discontented.  Vit.  I  did  nothing  to  displease  htm  ;  I 
tarwi  to  him  at  supper  time." 

7  Gold  coin. 


9C.  III.  OF     WINDSOR.  236 

Pist.  As  many  devils  entertain ;  and,  "  To  her, 
boy,"  say  I. 

Nym.  The  humour  rises ;  it  is  good :  humour 
me  the  angels. 

Fal.  I  have  writ  me  here  a  letter  to  her ;  and  here 
another  to  Page's  wife,  who  even  now  gave  me  good 
eyes  too,  examin'd  my  parts  with  most  judicious 
eyliads : 8  sometimes  the  beam  of  her  view  gilded 
my  foot,  sometimes  my  portly  belly. 

Pist.  Then  did  the  sun  on  dunghill  shine. 

Nym.  I  thank  thee  for  that  humour. 

Fal.  O  !  she  did  so  course  o'er  my  exteriors  with 
such  a  greedy  intention,9  that  the  appetite  of  her 
eye  did  seem  to  scorch  me  up  like  a  burning  glass. 
Here's  another  letter  to  her :  she  bears  the  purse 
too  ;  she  is  a  region  in  Guiana,  all  gold  and  bounty. 
I  will  be  cheater  10  to  them  both,  and  they  shall  be 
exchequers  to  me  :  they  shall  be  my  East  and  West 
Indies,  and  I  will  trade  to  them  both.  Go,  bear 
thou  this  letter  to  mistress  Page ;  and  thou  this  to 
mistress  Ford  :  we  will  thrive,  lads,  we  will  thrive. 

Pist.  Shall  I  Sir  Pandarus  of  Troy  become, 
And  by  my  side  wear  steel  1  then,  Lucifer  take  all ! 

Nym.  I  will  run  no  base  humour :  here,  take  the 
humour-letter :  I  will  keep  the  'haviour  of  reputa- 
tion. 

FaL  [  To  ROB.]  Hold,  sirrah ;  bear  you  these  let- 
ters tightly  : 
Sail  like  my  pinnace,"  to  these  golden  shores.  — 

8  Eyliads  are  soft  glances,  or  wanton  looks.     Cotgrave  trans- 
ates  it,  "  to  cast  a  sheep's  eye."  H. 

9  That  is,  intentness. 

10  The  escheators  were  officers  of  the  exchequer,  and  popularly 
called  cheaters.  H. 

11  A  pinnace  was  a  light  vessel  built  for  speed,  and  was  also 
called  a  brigantine.     Hence  the  word  is  used  for  a  go-between 
In  Ben  Jonson's  Bartholomew  Fair,  Justice  Overdo  says  of  the 


'236  MERRY    WIVES  ACT  I. 

Rogues,  hence  !  avaunt !  vanish  like  hailstones,  go  ; 
Trudge,  plod  away  o'  the  hoof;  seek  shelter,  pack  ! 
Falstaff  will  learn  the  humour  of  this  age, 
French  thrift,  you  rogues :  myself,  and  skirted  page. 
[Exeunt  FALSTAFF  and  ROBIN. 

Pist.  Let  vultures  gripe  thy  guts ! I2  for  gourd  and 

fullam  13  holds, 

And  liigh  and  low  beguile  the  rich  and  poor : 
Tester  u  I'll  have  in  pouch,  when  thou  shalt  lack, 
Base  Phrygian  Turk ! 

Nym.  I  have  operations,  which  be  humours  of 
revenge. 

Pist.  Wilt  thou  revenge  1 

Nym.  By  welkin,  and  her  star  ! 

Pist.  With  wit,  or  steel  ? 

Nym.  With  both  the  humours,  I : 
I  will  discuss  the  humour  of  this  love  to  Page, 

Pist.  And  I  to  Ford  shall  eke  unfold, 

How  Falstaff,  varlet  vile, 
His  dove  will  prove,  his  gold  will  hold, 
And  his  soft  couch  defile. 

Nym.  My  humour  shall  not  cool :  I  will  incense 
Page  to  deal  with  poison  ;  I  will  possess  him  with 
yellowness ; 15  for  the  revolt  of  mine  is  danger 
ous  : 16  that  is  my  true  humour. 

pig-woman,  —  "  She  has  been  before  me,  punk,  pinnace,  and  bawd 
any  time  these  two  and  twenty  years." 

11  A  burlesque  on  a  passage  in  Marlowe's  Tamburlaine : 

"  and  now  doth  ghastly  death 
With  greedy  talents  gripe  my  bleeding  heart, 
And  like  a  harper  tyers  on  my  life." 

18  In  Decker's  Bellman  of  London,  1640,  among  the  false  dice 
are  enumerated  "  a  bale  of  fullams  —  a  bale  of  gordes,  with  as 
many  high  men  as  low  men  for  passage."  The  false  dice  were 
chiefly  made  at  Fulham  ;  hence  the  name. 

14  Sixpence  I'll  have  in  pocket.  l8  Jealousy. 

18  Evidently  referring  to  his  revolt  from  Falstaff,  which  is  now 
his  "  true  humour  " 


BO.  IV  OF    WINDSOR.  237 

Pist.  Thou  art  the  Mars  of  malcontents :  I 
second  thee  ;  troop  on.  [Exeunt. 

SCENE    IV.     A  Room  in  Dr.  CAIUS'S  House. 

Enter  Mrs.  QUICKLY,  SIMPLE,  and  RUGBY. 

Quick.  What,  John  Rugby  !  —  I  pray  thee,  go  to 
the  casement,  and  see  if  you  can  see  my  master, 
master  Doctor  Caius,  coming  :  if  he  do,  i'faith,  and 
find  any  body  in  the  house,  here  will  be  an  old 
abusing  '  of  God's  patience,  and  the  king's  English. 

Rug.  I'll  go  watch.  [Exit  RUGBY. 

Quick.  Go  ;  and  we'll  have  a  posset  for't  soon  at 
night,  in  faith,  at  the  latter  end  of  a  sea-coal  fire. 
An  honest,  willing,  kind  fellow,  as  ever  servant  shall 
come  in  house  withal :  and,  I  warrant  you,  no  tell- 
tale, nor  no  breed-bate  : 2  his  worst  fault  is,  that  he 
is  given  to  prayer  ;  he  is  something  peevish  3  that 
way :  but  nobody  but  has  his  fault ;  —  but  let  that 
pass.  Peter  Simple,  you  say,  your  name  is  ? 

Sim.  Ay,  for  fault  of  a  better. 

Quick.  And  master  Slender's  your  master  ? 

Sim.  Ay,  forsooth. 

Quick.  Does  he  not  wear  a  great  round  beard, 
like  a  glover's  paring  knife  ? 

Sim.  No,  forsooth :  he  hath  but  a  little  wee  face, 
with  a  little  yellow  beard  ;  a  Cain-colour'd  beard.4 

1  Old  is  here  intensive,  much  the  same  as  huge ;  a  common  use 
of  the  word  in  the  Poet's  time.  Thus  we  have  old  coil  in  Much 
Ado  about  Nothing.  H. 

8  That  is,  breeder  of  debate,  maker  of  strife. 

*  Foolish. 

4  It  is  said  that  Cain  and  Judas  in  old  pictures  and  tapestry 
were  constantly  represented  with  yellow  beards.  In  an  age  when 
but  a  small  part  of  the  nation  could  read,  ideas  were  frequently 
borrowed  from  these  representations.  The  quartos  read  kine- 
ti'lottred,  that  is,  having  the  colour  of  cane 


238  MEKRY    WIVES  ACT  I 

Quick.  A  softly-sprighted  man,  is  he  not  1 

Sim.  Ay,  forsooth :  but  he  is  as  tall  a  man  of 
his  hands,6  as  any  is  between  this  and  his  head ;  he 
hath  fought  with  a  warrener.6 

Quick.  How  say  you  1  —  O  !  I  should  remember 
him  :  Does  he  not  hold  up  his  head,  as  it  were, 
and  strut  in  his  gait  1 

Sim.  Yes,  indeed,  does  he. 

Quick.  Well,  heaven  send  Anne  Page  no  worse 
fortune  !  Tell  master  parson  Evans,  I  will  do  whal 
I  can  for  your  master :  Anne  is  a  good  girl,  and  1 
wish  — 

Re-enter  RUGBY. 

Rug.  Out,  alas  !  here  comes  my  master.  [Exit 
Quick.  We  shall  all  be  shent : 7  Run  in  here,  good 
young  man  ;  go  into  this  closet.  [Shuts  SIMPLE  in 
the  closet.]  He  will  not  stay  long.  —  What,  John 
Rugby !  John,  what,  John,  I  say  !  —  Go,  John,  go 
inquire  for  my  master  ;  I  doubt,  he  be  not  well,  that 
he  comes  not  home :  —  [Sings.]  "  and  down,  down 
adown-a,"  &c. 

Enter  Doctor  CAIUS.' 

Caius.  Vat  is  you  sing  ?  I  do  not  like  dese  toys  • 
Pray  you,  go  and  vetch  me  in  my  closet  un  boitiet 

*  A  common  phrjse  of  the  time  for  a  man  of  valour  or  execu 
tion,  something  like  the  French  homme  liaut  a  la  main.     Thus 
again  in  TwelAh  Night :  "  As  tall  a  man  as  any's  in  Illyria."     It 
is  one  of  the  new  phrases  ridiculed  by  Mercutio,as  being  used  by 
the  "  antic,  lisping,  affected  fantasticos  "  of  his  age :   "  A  very 
good  blade,  a  very  tall  man  !  "  H. 

a  The  keeper  of  a  warren. 

*  The  original  meaning  of  shent  was  killed  or  mined ;  but  il 
osme  to   oe  used  for  reviled,  or  abused  with  rough  language,  in 
which  sense  it  occurs  several  times  in  Shakespeare.  H. 

8  It  has  been  thought  strange  that  Shakespeare  should  take  tba 
name  of  Caius  for  his  Frenchman,  as  an  eminent  physician  of  tba 


&C.  IV.  OF    WINDSOR.  239 

nerd;  a  box,  a  green-a  box  :  Do  intend  vat  I  speak  '! 
a  green-a  box. 

Quick.  Ay,  forsooth:  I'll  fetch  it  you.  [Aside.]  1 
am  glad  he  went  not  in  himself:  if  he  had  found 
the  young  man,  he  would  have  been  horn-mad. 

Caius.  Fe,  fe,  fe,  fe  !  ma  foit  il  fait  fort  chaud 
Je  nt'en  vais  d  la  Cour,  —  la  grande  affaire. 

Quick.  Is  it  this,  sir  1 

Caius.  Ouy  ;  mette  le  au  mon  pocket ;  Depec/iet 
quickly  :  —  Vere  is  dat  knave  Rugby  ? 

Quick.  What,  John  Rugby  !  John  ! 

Rug.  Here,  sir. 

Caius.  %You  are  John  Rugby,  and  you  are  Jack 
Rugby  :  Come,  take-a  your  rapier,  and  come  after 
my  heel  to  de  court. 

Rug.  'Tis  ready,  sir,  here  in  the  porch. 

Caius.  By  my  trot,  I  tarry  too  long :  —  Od's  me  ! 
Qu'ay  foublie  1  dere  is  some  simples  in  my  closet 
dat  I  vill  not  for  the  varld  I  shall  leave  behind. 

Quick.  [Aside.]  Ah  me  !  he'll  find  the  young 
man  there,  and  be  mad. 

Caius.  O  diable,  diable  !  vat  is  in  my  closet  ?  — 
Villainy  !  larron  !  [Pulling  SIMPLE  out.]  Rugby, 
ray  rapier  ! 

Quick.  Good  master,  be  content. 

Caius.  Verefore  shall  I  be  content-a  ? 

Quick.  The  young  man  is  an  honest  man. 

Caius.  Vat  shall  de  honest  man  do  in  my  closet  1 
dere  is  no  honest  man  dat  shall  come  in  my  closet. 

name,  founder  of  Caius  College,  Oxford,  flourished  in  Elizabeth'* 
reign.  But  Shakespeare  was  little  acquainted  with  literary  his 
lory,  and  without  doubt,  from  this  unusual  name,  supposed  him  to 
have  been  some  foreign  quack.  The  character  might  however  be 
drawn  from  the  life,  for  in  Jack  Dover's  Quest  of  Eiiquirie,  J604, 
a  story  called  The  Foole  of  Windsor  turns  upon  a  simple  out 
Isndisli  Doctor  of  Physic. 


24U  MERKY    WIVES  ACT  1. 

Quick.     I  beseech    you,  be  not  so  phlegmatic; 
hear  the  truth  of  it :   He  came  of  an  errand  to  me 
from  parson  Hugh. 

Caius.  Veil. 

Sim.  Ay,  forsooth,  to  desire  her  to  — 

Quick.  Peace,  I  pray  you. 

Caius.  Peace-a  your  tongue  !  —  Speak-a  your  tale. 

Sim.  To  desire  this  honest  gentlewoman,  your 
maid,  to  speak  a  good  word  to  mistress  Anne  Page 
for  my  master,  in  the  way  of  marriage. 

Quick.  This  is  all,  indeed,  la ;  but  I'll  ne'er  put 
my  finger  in  the  fire,  and  need  not. 

Caius.  Sir  Hugh  send-a  you  ?  —  Rugby t  bailkz  me 
some  paper  :  —  Tarry  you  a  littel-a  while.  [  Writes. 

Quick.  I  am  glad  he  is  so  quiet :  if  he  had  been 
throughly  moved,  you  should  have  heard  him  so 
loud,  and  so  melancholy.  —  But  notwithstanding, 
man,  I'll  do  for  your  master  what  good  I  can :  and 
the  very  yea  and  the  no  is,  the  French  Doctor,  my 
master,  —  I  may  call  him  my  master,  look  you,  for 
I  keep  his  house ;  and  I  wash,  wring,  brew,  bake, 
scour,  dress  meat  and  drink,  make  the  beds,  and  do 
all  myself;  — 

Sim.  'Tis  a  great  charge,  to  come  under  one 
body's  hand. 

Quick.  Are  you  avis'd  o'  <hat  1  you  shall  find  it 
a  great  charge  :  and  to  be  up  early,  and  down  late  ; 
—  but  notwithstanding,  to  tell  you  in  your  ear,  (I 
would  have  no  words  of  it,)  my  master  himself  is  in 
love  with  mistress  Anne  Page :  but  notwithstanding 
that,  I  know  Anne's  mind,  —  that's  neither  here  nor 
there. 

Caius.  You  jack'nape,  give-a  dis  letter  to  Sir 
Hugh ;  by  gar,  it  is  a  shallenge  :  I  vill  cut  his 
troat  in  de  park  ;  and  I  vill  teach  a  scurvy  jack-a- 


SC.   IV.  OF    WINDSOR.  21 1 

nape  priest  to  meddle  or  make  :  —  You  may  be  gone  ; 
it  is  not  good  you  tarry  here  :  —  by  gar,  I  vill  cut  alJ 
his  two  stones  ;  by  gar,  he  shall  not  have  a  stone  to 
trow  at  his  dog.  [Exit  SIMPLE. 

Quick.  Alas  !  he  speaks  but  for  his  friend. 

Caius.  It  is  no  matter-a  for  dat :  —  do  not  you 
tell-a  me  dat  I  shall  have  Anne  Page  for  myself?  — 
by  gar,  I  vill  kill  de  .lack  priest ;  and  I  have  ap- 
pointed mine  Host  of  de  Jarterre  to  measure  our 
weapon  :  —  By  gar,  I  vill  myself  have  Anne  Page. 

Quick.  Sir,  the  maid  loves  you,  and  all  shall  be 
well  :  we  must  give  folks  leave  to  prate :  What,  the 
good-jer.!  9 

Caius.  Rugby,  come  to  the  court  vit  me  :  —  By 
gar,  if  I  have  not  Anne  Page,  I  shall  turn  your  head 
out  of  my  door  :  —  Follow  my  heels,  Rugby. 

[Exeunt  CAIUS  and  RUGBY. 

Quick.  You  shall  have  An  fool's-head  of  your 
own.  No,  I  know  Anne's  mind  for  that :  never  a 
woman  in  Windsor  knows  more  of  Anne's  mind  than 
I  do ;  nor  can  do  more  than  I  do  with  her,  I  thank 
heaven. 

Pent.  [Within.]  Who's  within  there,  ho  1 

Quick.  Who's  there,  I  trow  ?  Come  near  the 
house,  I  pray  you. 

Enter  FENTON. 

Fen.  How  now,  good  woman  !  how  dost  thou  ? 

Quick.  The  better,  that  it  pleases  your  good  wor- 
ship to  ask. 

Fent.  What  news  ?  how  does  pretty  mistress 
Anne? 

Quick.  In  truth,  sir,  and  she  is  pretty,  and  honest, 

9  TJie  goujere ;  that  is,  morbus  Gallicus.  The  good-jer  and 
goj  i  yeare  were  common  corruptions  of  this  phrase. 


242  MERRY    WIVES  ACT  I- 

and  gentle  ;  and  one  that  is  your  friend,  I  can  tell 
you  that  by  the  way  ;  I  praise  heaven  for  it. 

Fent.  Shall  I  do  any  good,  thinkest  thou  "•  Shall 
I  not  lose  my  suit  ? 

Quick.  Troth,  sir,  all  is  in  his  hands  above :  but 
notwithstanding,  master  Fenton,  I'll  be  sworn  on  a 
oook,  she  loves  you :  —  Have  not  your  worship  a 
wart  above  your  eye  ? 

Fent.  Yes,  marry,  have  I ;  what  of  that  ? 

Quick.  Well,  thereby  hangs  a  tale  :  —  Good  faith, 
it  is  such  another  Nan  ; — '•but,  I  detest,10  01  honest 
maid  as  ever  broke  bread :  —  We  had  an  hour's  talk 
of  that  wart.  —  I  shall  never  laugh  but  in  that  maid's 
company  !  —  But,  indeed,  she  is  given  too  much  to 
allicholly  and  musing :  But  for  you  —  Well,  go  to 

Fent.  Well,  I  shall  see  her  to-day :  Hold,  there '» 
money  for  thee  ;  let  me  have  thy  voice  in  my  behalf: 
if  thou  seest  her  before  me,  commend  me  — 

Quick.  Will  1 7  i'faith,  that  I  will :  and  I  will 
tell  your  worship  more  of  the  wart,  the  next  time 
we  have  confidence,  and  of  other  wooers. 

Fent.  Well,  farewell ;  I  am  in  great  haste  now. 

[Exit. 

Quick.  Farewell  to  your  worship.  —  Truly,  an 
honest  gentleman :  but  Anne  loves  him  not ;  for  I 
know  Anne's  mind  as  well  as  another  does :  Out 
upon't  I  what  have  I  forgot?  [Exit 

10  She  means.  I  protest. 


or  WINDSOR.  243 

ACT   II. 

SCENE    I.     Before  PAGE'S  House. 

Enter  Mrs.  PAGE,  urith  a  letter. 

Mrs.  Page.  What !  have  I  'scap'd  love-letters  in 
the  holiday  time  of  my  beauty,  and  am  I  now  a 
tubject  for  them  1  Let  me  see :  [Reads. 

"  Ask  me  no  reason  why  I  love  you ;  for,  though  love 
use  reason  for  his  precision,1  he  admits  him  not  for  hia 
counsellor:  You  are  not  young,  no  more  am  I ;  go  to  then, 
there's  sympathy  :  you  are  merry,  so  am  I ;  Ha !  ha !  then 
there's  more  sympathy :  you  love  sack,  and  so  do  I ;  would 
you  desire  better  sympathy  ?  Let  it  suffice  thee,  mistress 
Page,  (at  the  least,  if  the  love  of  soldier  can  suffice,)  that 
I  love  thee.  I  will  not  say,  pity  me ;  'tis  not  a  soldier-like 
phrase ;  but  I  say,  love  me.  By  me, 

Thine  own  true  knight, 
By  day  or  night, 
Or  any  kind  of  light, 
With  all  his  might 
For  thee  to  fight, 

JOHN  FALSTAFF." 

What  a  Herod  of  Jewry  is  this !  —  O  wicked,  wicked 
world !  —  one  that  is  well  nigh  worn  to  pieces  with 
age,  to  show  himself  a  young  gallant !  What  an  un- 
weighed  behaviour  hath  this  Flemish  drunkard  pick'd 
(with  the  devil's  name)  out  of  my  conversation,  that 
he  dares  in  this  manner  assay  me  1  Why,  he  hath 

1  The  meaning  of  this  passage  is  at  present  obscure.  Dr.  John 
son  conjectured,  that  Shakespeare  wrote  physician,  which  would 
make  the  sense  obvious ;  and  the  conjecture  is  rendered  probable 
by  a  line  in  one  of  his  Sonnets  :  "  My  reason  the  physician  to  mj 
love.:'  H 


344  MERRY   WIVES  ACT  11. 

not  been  thrice  in  my  company  !  —  What  should  J 
say  to  him  ?  —  I  was  then  frugal  of  my  mirth  •  — 
heaven  forgive  me  !  — Why,  I'll  exhibit  a  bill  in  the 
parliament  for  the  putting  down  of  fat  men.  How 
shall  I  be  reveng'd  on  him  1  for  reveng'd  I  will  be, 
as  sure  as  his  guts  are  made  of  puddings. 

Enter  Mrs.  FORD. 

Mrs.  Ford.  Mistress  Page  !  trust  me,  I  was  going 
to  your  house. 

Mrs.  Page.  And,  trust  me,  I  was  coming  to  you. 
You  look  very  ill. 

Mrs.  Ford.  Nay,  I'll  ne'er  believe  that :  I  have 
to  show  to  the  contrary. 

Mrs.  Page.  'Faith,  but  you  do,  in  my  mind. 

Mrs.  Ford.  Well,  I  do  then ;  yet,  I  say,  I  could 
show  you  to  the  contrary :  O,  mistress  Page  !  give 
me  some  counsel. 

Mrs.  Page.  What's  the  matter,  woman  ? 

Mrs.  Ford.  O  woman  !  if  it  were  not  for  one 
trifling  respect,  I  could  come  to  such  honour. 

Mrs.  Page.  Hang  the  trifle,  woman  ;  take  the 
honour  :  What  is  it  ?  —  dispense  with  trifles  ;  — 
what  is  it  1 

Mrs.  Ford.  If  I  would  but  go  to  hell  for  an  eter- 
nal moment  or  so,  I  could  be  knighted.- 

Mrs.  Page.  What  1  —  thou  liest !  —  Sir  Alice 
Ford  !  —  These  knights  will  hack ; 2  and  so  thou 
shouldst  not  alter  the  article  of  thy  gentry. 

Mrs.  Ford.  We  burn  day-light : 3  here,  read,  read ; 

*  This  is  supposed  to  be  a  covert  reflection  upon  the  prodigal 
distribution  of  the  honour  of  knighthood  by  King  James.     "  These 
knights  will  soon  become  so  hackneyed  that  your  honour  will  not 
be  increased  by  becoming  one." 

*  A  proverb  :  we  burn  lamps  by  day-light ;  that  is,  we  waste 
time.  H. 


SC.  I.  OF    WINDSOR.  245 

—  perceive  howl  might  be  knighted.  —  I  shall  think 
the  worse  of  fat  men,  as  long  as  I  have  an  eye  to 
make  difference  of  men's  liking:  And  yet  he  would 
not  swear ;  prais'd  women's  modesty ;  and  gave 
such  orderly  and  well-behaved  reproof  to  all  un- 
comeliness,  that  I  would  have  sworn  his  disposition 
would  have  gone  to  the  truth  of  his  words  :  but  they 
do  no  more  adhere  and  keep  place  together,  than  the 
hundredth  psalm  to  the  tune  of  "  Green  sleeves."  4 
What  tempest,  I  trow,  threw  this  whale,  with  so 
many  tuns  of  oil  in  his  belly,  ashore  at  Windsor  1 
How  shall  I  be  revenged  on  him  1  I  think,  the  best 
way  were  to  entertain  him  with  hope,  till  the  wicked 
fire  of  lust  have  melted  him  in  his  own  grease.  — 
Did  you  ever  hear  the  like  ? 

Mrs.  Page.  Letter  for  letter,  but  that  the  name 
of  Page  and  Ford  differs !  —  To  thy  great  comfort  in 
this  mystery  of  ill  opinions,  here's  the  twin-brother 
of  thy  letter :  but  let  tliine  inherit  first ;  for,  I  pro- 
test, mine  never  shall.  I  warrant  he  hath  a  thou- 
sand of  these  letters,  writ  with  blank  space  for  dif- 
ferent names,  (sure  more,)  and  these  are  of  the 
second  edition  :  He  will  print  them  out  of  doubt ; 
for  he  cares  not  what  he  puts  into  the  press,  when 
he  would  put  us  two.  I  had  rather  be  a  giantess, 
and  lie  under  mount  Pelion  !  Well,  I  will  find  you 
twenty  lascivious  turtles,  ere  one  chaste  man. 

Mrs.  Ford.  Why,  this  is  the  very  same  ;  the  very 
hand,  the  very  words :  What  doth  he  think  of  us  1 

Mrs.  Page.  Nay,  I  know  not :    It  makes  me  al 
most  ready  to  wrangle  with  mine  own  honesty.     I'll 

4  This  popular  old  song,  the  words  of  which  have  not  been  dis 
covered,  appears  from  several  contemporary  allusions  to  iiave  been 
decidedly  smutty.  The  tune  having  been  regenerated  in  the  name 
of  "  Which  nobody  can  deny,"  many  ballads  were  afterwards  se' 
to  it.  II 


24fi  MERRY   WIVES  ACT   II. 

entertain  myself  like  one  that  I  am  not  acquainted 
withal ;  for,  sure,  unless  he  know  some  strain  in  me, 
that  I  know  not  myself,  he  never  would  have  boardea 
me  in  this  fury. 

Mrs.  Ford.  Boarding,  call  you  it  1  I'll  be  sure  to 
keep  him  above  deck. 

Mrs.  Page.  So  will  I :  if  he  come  under  my 
hatches,  I'll  never  to  sea  again.  Let's  be  reveng'd 
on  him :  let's  appoint  him  a  meeting ;  give  him  a 
show  of  comfort  in  his  suit ;  and  lead  him  on  with  a 
fine-baited  delay,  till  he  hath  pawn'd  his  horses  to 
mine  Host  of  the  Garter. 

Mrs.  Ford.  Nay,  I  will  consent  to  act  any  vil- 
lainy against  him,  that  may  not  sully  the  chariness  * 
of  our  honesty.  O,  that  my  husband  saw  this  let- 
ter !  it  would  give  eternal  food  to  his  jealousy. 

Mrs.  Page.  Why,  look,  where  he  comes ;  and 
my  good  man  too  :  he's  as  far  from  jealousy,  as  1 
am  from  giving  him  cause ;  and  that,  I  hope,  is  an 
unmeasurable  distance. 

Mrs.  Ford.  You  are  the  happier  woman. 

Mrs.  Page.  Let's  consult  together  against  this 
greasy  knight :  Come  hither.  [  They  retire. 

Enter  FORD,  PISTOL,  PAGE,  and  NYM. 

Ford.  Well,  I  hope  it  be  not  so. 
Pist.  Hope  is  a  curtail 6  dog  in  some  affairs : 
Sir  John  affects  thy  wife. 

Ford.  Why,  sir,  my  wife  is  not  young. 
Pist.  He  woos  both  high  and  low,  both  rich  and 
poor, 

'  That  is,  the  caution  which  ought  to  attend  on  it. 

•  It  was  a  prevalent  notion  that  the  tail  of  a  dog  was  neces- 
sary to  him  in  running :  hence  a  dog  that  missed  his  game  \v  u 
called  a  curtail,  from  which  cur  is  probably  derived 


»C.  1.  OF    WINDSOR.  247 

Koth  young  and  olj,  one  with  another,  Ford  : 
He  loves  the  gally-mawfry  ; 7  Ford,  perpend.8 

Ford.  Love  my  wife  ? 

Pist.  With  liver   burning  hot : 9  Prevent,  or  go 

thou, 

Like  Sir  Actaeon  he,  with  Ring-wood  at  thy  heels  : 
O,  odioius  is  the  name  \ 

Ford.  What  name,  sir  1  — 

Pist.  The  horn,  I  say  :  Farewell. 
Take  heed  ;  have  open  eye ;  for  thieves  do  foot  by 

night : 
Take  heed,  ere  summer  comes,  or  cuckoo-birds  do 

sing.  — 

Away,  sir  corporal  Nym.  — 
Believe  it,  Page  ;  he  speaks  sense.        [Exit  PISTOL. 

Ford.  I  will  be  patient ;  I  will  find  out  this. 

Nym.  [  To  PAGE.]  And  this  is  true ;  I  like  not 
the  humour  of  lying.  He  hath  wronged  me  in  some 
humours:  I  should  have  borne  the  humour'd  letter 
to  her  ;  but  I  have  a  sword,  and  it  shall  bite  upon 
my  necessity.  He  loves  your  wife  ;  there's  the  short 
and  the  long.  My  name  is  corporal  Nym  :  I  speak, 
and  I  avouch.  'Tis  true  :  — my  name  is  Nym,  and 
FalstafF  loves  your  wife.  —  Adieu  \  I  love  not  the 
humour  of  bread  and  cheese  ;  and  there's  the 
humour  of  it.  Adieu.  [Exit  NYM. 

Page.  "  The  humour  10  of  it,"  quoth'a  \  here's  a 
feliow  frights  English  out  of  his  wits. 

7  A  medley.  8  Consider. 

9  The  liver  was  anciently  supposed  to  he  the  seat  of  the  amo- 
rous passions. 

10  The  abuse  of  the  word  humour  by  the  coxcombs  of  that  age 
has  been  admirably  satirized  by  Ben  Jonson.     After  a  very  per- 
tinent disquisition  on  the  real  meaning  and  true  application  of  Ui« 
»vord,  he  concludes  thus  : 

Asp.  But  that  a  rook  by  wearing  a  pied  feather. 
The  cable  hatband,  or  the  three-pil'tl  ruff 


248  MfclvKY    WIVES  ACT   II. 

Ford.   [To  himself.]    I  will  seek  out  Falstaff. 

Page  I  never  heard  such  a  drawling  affecting  " 
rogue. 

Ford.  [To  himself.]  If  I  do  find  it,  well. 

Page.  I  will  not  believe  such  a  Catalan, 12  though 
the  Driest  o'  the  town  commended  him  for  a  true  man. 

Ford.  [To  himself.]  'Twas  a  good  sensible  fel- 
low: Well. 

Page.  How  now,  Meg  ? 

Mrs.  Page.  Whither  go  you,  George  ?  — Hark  you 

Mrs.  Ford.  How  now,  sweet  Frank !  why  art 
tliou  melancholy  ? 

Ford.  I  melancholy !  I  am  not  melancholy.  — 
Get  you  home,  go. 

Mrs.  Ford.  'Faith  thou  hast  some  crotchets  in  thy 
head  now.  —  Will  you  go,  mistress  Page  ? 

Mrs.  Page.  Have  with  you.  —  You'll  come  to 
dinner,  George  1  —  [Aside  to  Mrs.  FORD.]  Look, 
who  comes  yonder  :  she  shall  be  our  messenger  to 
this  paltry  knight. 

Enter  Mrs.  QUICKLY. 
Mrs.  Ford.  Trust  me,  I  thought  on  her  :  she'll  fit  it. 

A  yard  of  shoe-tie,  or  the  Swilzer's  knot 

On  his  French  garters,  should  affect  a  humour, 

O,  it  is  more  than  most  ridiculous ! 

Cor.  He  speaks  pure  truth  ;  now,  if  an  idiot 
Have  but  an  apish  or  fantastic  strain, 
It  is  his  humour.  — 

Induction  to  Every  Man  Out  of  his  Humour. 

11  That  is,  affected.  The  active  participle  was  sometimes  used 
for  the  passive;  as  in  Winter's  Tale,  '•  your  discontenting  father," 
for  your  discontented  father.  H. 

14  That  is,  a  Chinese;  Cataia,or  Cathay,  being  the  name  given 
to  China  by  the  old  travellers,  some  of  whom  have  mentioned  the 
dexterous  thieving  of  the  people  there :  hence  a  sharper  or  ihu'f 
wms  sometimes  called  a  Catalan. 


oU.    i.  OF    WINDSOR.  W 

Mrs.  Page.  You  are  come  to  see  my  daughtei 
Anne  1 

Quick.  Ay,  forsooth :  And,  I  pray,  how  does 
good  mistress  Anne  1 

Mrs.  Page.  Go  in  with  us,  and  see :   we  have  an 

hour's  talk  with  you.  [Exeunt  Mrs.  PAGE, 

Mrs.  FORD,  and  Mrs.  QUICKLY. 

Page.  How  now,  master  Ford  ? 

Foi'd.  You  heard  what  this  knave  told  me,  did 
you  not  ? 

Page.  Yes ;  and  you  heard  what  the  other  told  me  1 

Ford.  Do  you  think  there  is  truth  in  them  1 

Page.  Hang  'em,  slaves !  I  do  not  think  the  knight 
would  offer  it :  but  these  that  accuse  him,  in  his  in- 
tent towards  our  wives,  are  a  yoke  of  his  discarded 
men  ;  very  rogues,  now  they  be  out  of  service. 

Ford.  Were  they  his  men  ? 

Page.  Marry,  were  they. 

Ford.  I  like  it  never  the  better  for  that.  —  Does 
he  lie  at  the  Garter  ? 

Page.  Ay,  marry,  does  he.  If  he  should  intend 
this  voyage  towards  my  wife,  I  would  turn  her  loose 
to  him  ;  and  what  he  gets  more  of  her  than  sharp 
words,  let  it  lie  on  my  head. 

Ford.  I  do  not  misdoubt  my  wife ;  but  1  would 
be  loth  to  turn  them  together :  A  man  may  be  too 
confident :  I  would  have  nothing  lie  on  my  head ;  I 
rnnnot  be  thus  satisfied. 

Page.  Look,  where  my  ranting  Host  of  the  Garter 
comes  :  there  is  either  liquor  in  his  pate,  or  money 
in  his  purse,  when  he  looks  so  merrily  — How  now 
mine  Host  ? 

Enter  Host  and  SHALLOW. 

Host.  How  now,  bully-rook !  thou'rt  a  gentleman 
Cavalero-justice,  I  say ! 


250  MERRY    WIVES  ACT  11. 

Skal.  I  follow,  mine  Host,  I  follow.  —  Good  even 
and  twenty,  good  master  Page  !  Master  Page,  will 
you  go  with  us  1  we  have  sport  in  hand. 

Host.  Tell  him,  cavalero-justice  ;  tell  him,  bully- 
rook. 

Shot.  Sir,  there  is  a  fray  to  be  fought  between 
Sir  Hugh  the  Welch  priest  and  Caius  the  French 
doctor. 

Ford.  Good  mine  Host  o'  the  Garter,  a  word  with 
you. 

Host.  What  say'st  thou,  bully-rook  ? 

\_TJiey  go  aside. 

Shal.  [  To  PAGE.]  Will  you  go  with  us  to  behold 
it  1  My  merry  Host  hath  had  the  measuring  of  their 
weapons ;  and,  I  tliink,  hath  appointed  them  con- 
trary places :  for,  believe  me,  I  hear  the  parson  is 
no  jester.  Hark,  I  will  tell  you  what  our  sport 
shall  be. 

Host.  Hast  thou  no  suit  against  my  knight,  my 
guest-cavalier  1 

Ford.  None,  I  protest :  but  I'll  give  you  a  pottle 
of  burnt  sack  to  give  me  recourse  to  him,  and  tell 
him  my  name  is  Brook ;  only  for  a  jest. 

Host.  My  hand,  bully  :  thou  shalt  have  egress  and 
regress  ;  said  I  well  1  and  thy  name  shall  be  Brook  : 
It  is  a  merry  knight. — Will  you  go  on,  sirs  ? 13 

13  "  Will  you  goe  An-heirs  ?  "  is  the  reading  of  the  folio.  An- 
heirs  is  unintelligible,  but  may  have  been  a  proper  uaine  under- 
stood at  the  time,  like  Anaides  in  Ben  Joiison's  Cynthia's  Revels 
But  it  is  most  likely  a  misprint,  and  scarce  any  two  commentators 
are  agreed  as  to  the  right  word.  Steevens  proposes  on  hearts , 
Malone,  and  hear  us;  Boadeii,  Cavaliers:  Knight  adopts  on, 
lieers ;  Verplanck,  Mynheers.  The  last  three  are  certainly  much 
in  the  style  of  mine  Host ;  his  fondness  for  using  foreign  words 
which  he  has  picked  up  from  his  guests  being  all  along  apparent. 
Just  below,  the  Host  says,  "  Here,  boys,  here,  here !  shall  we 
wag  ?  "  which  suggests  that  the  true  reading  in  this  place  maj 
be,  — "  Will  you  go  on  here  ?  "  The  reading  in  the  text  is  Mr 


8U.   II.  OF    WINDSOR.  25' 

Shal.  Have  with  you,  mine  Host. 

Page.  I  have  heard,  the  Frenchman  hath  good 
skill  in  his  rapier. 

Shal.  Tut,  sir,  I  could  have  told  you  more  :  ID 
these  times  you  stand  on  distance,  your  passes,  stoc 
cadoes,  and  I  know  not  what :  'tis  the  heart,  master 
Page ;  'tis  here,  'tis  here.  I  have  seen  the  time, 
with  my  long  sword,14  I  would  have  made  you  four 
tall  fellows  skip  like  rats. 

Host.  Here,  boys,  here,  here  !    shall  we  wag  1 

Page.  Have  with  you.  —  I  had  rather  hear  them 
scold  th:in  fight.        [Exeunt  Host,  SHAL.  and  PAGE. 

Ford.  Though  Page  be  a  secure  fool,  and  stands 
so  firmly  on  his  wife's  fidelity,  yet  I  cannot  put  off 
my  opinion  so  easily :  She  was  in  his  company  at 
Page's  house  ;  and  what  they  made  15  there  I  know 
not.  Well,  I  will  look  further  into't ;  and  I  have 
a  disguise  to  sound  Falstaff:  If  I  find  her  honest,  1 
lose  not  my  labour ;  if  she  be  otherwise,  'tis  labou 
well  bestowed.  [Exir 

SCENE  II.     A  Room  in  the  Garter  Inn. 
Enter  FALSTAFF  and  PISTOL. 

Fal.  I  will  not  lend  thee  a  penny. 

Pist.  Why,  then  the  world's  mine  oyster, 
Which  I  with  sword  will  open.  — 
I  will  retort  the  sum  in  equipage.1 

Ilalliwell's  ;  which  we  prefer,  on  the  whole,  as  being  the  one  tha 
might  most  naturally  be  corrupted  by  a  printer  into  that  of  the 
original.  H. 

14  Before  the  introduction  of  rapiers  the  swords  in  use  were  of 
an  enormous  length  and  sometimes  used  with  both  hands.     Shal- 
low, with  an  old  man's  vanity,  censures  the  innovation,  and  ridi- 
cules the  terms  and  use  of  the  rapier. 

15  That  is,  what  they  did  there.     In  Act  iv.  Sc.  2,  of  this  play 
we  have  again,  what  make  you  here  ?  for  what  do  you  here  ? 

1   Equipage  appears  to  have  been  a  cant  term  for  stolen  goods 


252  MERRY    WIVES  ACT   II 

FaL  JNot  a  penny.  I  have  been  content,  sir,  you 
should  lay  my  countenance  to  pawn :  I  have  grated 
upon  my  good  friends  for  three  reprieves  for  you  and 
your  coach-fellow 2  Nym ;  or  else  you  had  look'd 
through  the  grate  like  a  geminy  of  baboons.  I  am 
damn'd  in  hell,  for  swearing  to  gentlemen  my  friends, 
you  were  good  soldiers,  and  tall  fellows :  and  when 
mistress  Bridget  lost  the  handle  of  her  fan,3  I  took't 
upon  mine  honour  thou  hadst  it  not. 

Pist.  Didst  thou  not  share  1   hadst  thou  not  fifteen 


pence 


FaL  Reason,  you  rogue,  reason :  Think'st  thou, 
I'll  endanger  my  soul  gratis  1  At  a  word,  hang  no 
more  about  me,  I  am  no  gibbet  for  you  :  —  go.  —  A 
short  knife  and  a  throng ; 4  —  to  your  manor  of  Pickt- 
hatch,5  go.  —  You'll  not  bear  a  letter  for  me,  you 
rogue  !  you  stand  upon  your  honour  !  —  Why,  thou 
unconfinable  baseness,  it  is  as  much  as  I  can  do  to 
keep  the  terms  of  my  honour  precise.  I,  ay,  I  my- 
self sometimes,  leaving  the  fear  of  heaven  on  the  left 
hand,  and  hiding  mine  honour  in  my  necessity,  am 
fain  to  shuffle,  to  hedge,  and  to  lurch ;  and  yet  you, 

*  That  is,  he  who   draws  along  with  you,  who   is  joined  with 
you  in  all  your  knavery. 

3  Fans  were  costly  appendages  of  female  dress  in  Shakespeare's 
time.  They  consisted  of  ostrich  and  other  feathers,  fixed  into 
handles,  some  of  which  were  made  of  gold,  silver,  or  ivory  of 
curious  workmanship.  Thus  in  the  second  Sestyad  of  Marlowe's 
Hero  and  Leander : 

"  Her  painted  fan  of  curled  plumes  let  fall." 

*  That  Is,  go  and  cut  purses  in  a  crowd.     Purses  were  then 
worn  hanging  at  the  girdle. 

6  Pick't-hatch  was  in  Turnbull  Street,  Cow-Cross,  Clerkenwell, 
a  haunt  of  the  worst  part  of  both  sexes.  The  unseasonable  and 
obstreperous  irruptions  of  the  swash-bucklers  of  that  age  rendered 
a  hatch  or  half  door  with  spikes  upon  it  a  necessary  defence  to  a 
brothel,  and  hence  the  term  became  a  cant  phrase  to  denote  a 
part  of  the  town  noted  for  brothels. 


SC.  II.  OF    WINDSOR*  253 

rogue,  will  ensconce  6  your  rags,  your  cat-a-mouu- 
tain  looks,  your  red-lattice  phrases,  and  your  bold- 
beating  oaths,7  under  the  shelter  of  your  honour ! 
You  will  not  do  it,  you  ? 

Pist.  I  do  relent :  what  wouJdst  thou  more  of 
lusn  1 

Enter  ROBIN. 

Rob.  Sir,  here's  a  woman  would  speak  with  you. 
FaL  Let  her  approach. 

Enter  Mrs.  QUICKLY. 

Quick.    Give  your  worship  good-morrow. 

FaL  Good-morrow,  good  wife. 

Quick.  Not  so,  an't  please  your  worship. 

Fal.  Good  maid,  then. 

Quick.  I'll  be  sworn;  as  my  mother  was,  the  first 
hour  I  was  born. 

FaL    I  do  believe  the  swearer  :   What  with  me  ? 

Quick.  Shah1  I  vouchsafe  your  worship  a  word 
or  two  1 

Fal.  Two  thousand,  fair  woman ;  and  I'll  vouch- 
safe thee  the  hearing. 

Quick.  There  is  one  mistress  Ford,  sir ;  —  I  pray, 
come  a  little  nearer  this  ways  :  —  I  myself  dwell 
with  master  doctor  Cains. 

FaL  Well,  one  Mistress  Ford,  you  say,  — 

•  A  sconce  is  a  fortification  ;  to  ensconce  is  therefore  to  protect 
as  with  a  fort. 

7  Red-lattice  windows  were  formerly  the  style  of  ale  houses. 
Thus  Falsiaff 's  page  in  Henry  IV.  says  of  Bardolph,  — "  Ha 
called  me  even  now,  my  lord,  through  a  red-lattice."  What  bold- 
beating  oaths  may  mean,  the  commentators  have  not  told  us.  Mr. 
Dyce  says,  — "  I  have  little  doubt  that  Hanmer  restored  the  gen 
nine  text  when  he  printed,  '  your  red-lattice  phrases  and  your  biM 
baaiing  oaths.' "  B 


254  MERRY    WIVES  ACT  II. 

Quick.  Your  worship  says  very  true  :  I  pray  youi 
worship,  come  a  little  nearer  this  ways. 

Fal.  I  warrant  thee,  nobody  hears  :  —  mine  own 
people,  mine  own  people. 

Quick.  Are  they  so  7  Heaven  bless  them,  and 
make  them  his  servants  ! 

Fal.  Well :  mistress  Ford ;  —  what  of  her  ? 

Quick.  Why,  sir,  she's  a  good  creature.  Loid, 
Lord  !  your  worship's  a  wanton  :  Well,  heaven  for- 
give you,  and  all  of  us,  I  pray ! 

Fal.  Mistress  Ford  ;  —  come,  mistress  Ford,  — 

Quick.  Marry,  this  is  the  short  and  the  long  of  it : 
you  have  brought  her  into  such  a  canaries  8  as  'tis 
wonderful.  The  best  courtier  of  them  all,  when  the 
court  lay  at  Windsor,  could  never  have  brought  her 
to  such  a  canary :  yet  there  has  been  knights,  and 
lords,  and  gentlemen,  with  their  coaches ;  I  warrant 
you,  coach  after  coach,  letter  after  letter,  gift  after 
gift  ;  smelling  so  sweetly,  all  musk,  and  so  rushling, 
I  warrant  you,  in  silk  and  gold  ;  and  in  such  alligant 
terms  ;  and  in  such  wine  and  sugar  of  the  best,  and 
the  fairest,  that  would  have  won  any  woman's  heart ; 
and,  I  warrant  you,  they  could  never  get  an  eye- 
wink  of  her.  — I  had  myself  twenty  angels  given  me 
this  morning :  but  I  defy  all  angels,  (in  any  such 
sort,  as  they  say,)  but  in  the  way  of  honesty  :  —  and, 
I  warrant  you,  they  could  never  get  her  so  much  as 
sip  on  a  cup  with  the  proudest  of  them  all :  and  yet 
there  has  been  earls,  nay,  which  is  more,  pensioners; 8 
but  I  warrant  you,  all  is  one  with  her. 

8  Mrs.  Quickly's  blunder  for  quandaries. 

•  That  is,  gentlemen  of  the  band  of  Pensioners.  Their  dress 
was  remarkably  splendid,  and  therefore  likely  to  attract  the  notice 
of  Mrs.  Quickly.  Hence  Shakespeare,  iii  A  Midsummer-Nighi  * 
Dream,  has  selected  the  golden-coated  cowslips  to  be  pensioner! 
lt>  the  F'airy  Queen. 


SC.  II.  OF    W1NDSOK.  &~>O 

Fal.  But  what  says  slie  to  me  ?  be  brief,  my  good 
she  Mercury. 

Quick.  Marry,  she  hath  receiv'd  your  letter ;  for 
the  which  she  thanks  you  a  thousand  times  :  and 
she  gives  you  to  notify,  that  her  husband  will  be 
absence  from  his  house  between  ten  and  eleven. 

Fal.  Ten  and  eleven  ? 

Quick.  Ay,  forsooth  ;  and  then  you  may  come 
and  see  the  picture,  she  says,  that  you  wot  of :  — 
master  Ford,  her  husband,  will  be  from  home.  Alas ! 
the  sweet  woman  leads  an  ill  life  with  him ;  he's  a 
very  jealousy  man ;  she  leads  a  very  frampold 10 
life  with  him,  good  heart. 

Fal.  Ten  and  eleven :  Woman,  commend  me  to 
her  ;  I  will  not  fail  her. 

Quick.  Why,  you  say  well :  But  I  have  another 
messenger  to  your  worship  :  Mistress  Page  hath  her 
hearty  commendations  to  you  too  ;  —  and  let  me  tell 
you  in  your  ear,  she's  as  fartuous  a  civil  modest  wife, 
and  one  (I  tell  you)  that  will  not  miss  you  morning 
nor  evening  prayer,  as  any  is  in  Windsor,  whoe'er 
be  the  other :  and  she  bade  me  tell  your  worship, 
that  her  husband  is  seldom  from  home  ;  but  she 
hopes  there  will  come  a  time.  I  never  knew  a 
woman  so  dote  upon  a  man :  surely,  I  think  you 
have  charms,  la ;  yes,  in  truth. 

Fal.  Not  I,  I  assure  thee ;  setting  the  attraction 
of  my  good  parts  aside,  I  have  no  other  charms. 

Quick.  Blessing  on  your  heart  for't ! 

Fal.  But,  I  pray  thee,  tell  me  this  :  has  Ford'a 
wife,  and  Page's  wife,  acquainted  each  other  how 
they  love  me  ? 

Quick.  That  were  a  jest,  indeed !  —  they  have  no! 

10  Frampold  here  means  uneasy  or  vexatious.  This  obsoleM 
word  is  of  uncertain  etymology. 


•256  MERRY    WIVES  iCT  It 

BO  little  grace,  I  hope  :  —  that  were  a  trick,  indeed  ! 
But  mistress  Page  would  desire  you  to  send  her 
your  little  page,  of  all  loves:  "  her  husband  has  a 
marvellous  infection  to  the  little  page ;  and,  truly, 
master  Page  is  an  honest  man.  Never  a  wife  in 
Windsor  leads  a  better  life  than  she  does :  do  what 
she  will,  say  what  she  will,  take  all,  pay  all,  go  to 
bed  when  she  list,  rise  when  she  list,  all  is  as  she 
mil ;  and,  truly,  she  deserves  it ;  for  if  there  be  a 
kind  woman  in  Windsor,  she  is  one.  You  must 
send  her  your  page;  no  remedy. 

Pal.  Why,  I  will. 

Quick.  Nay,  but  do  so  then :  and,  look  you,  he 
may  come  and  go  between  you  both ;  and,  in  any 
case,  have  a  nay-word,12  that  you  may  know  one 
another's  mind,  and  the  boy  never  need  to  under- 
stand any  thing ;  for  'tis  not  good  that  children 
should  know  any  wickedness  :  old  folks,  you  know 
have  discretion,  as  they  say,  and  know  the  world. 

Fal.  Fare  thee  well :  commend  me  to  them  both- 

There's  my  purse  ;  I  am  yet  thy  debtor.  —  Boy,  go 

along  with  this  woman.  —  This  news  distracts  me ! 

[Exeunt  QUICKLY  and  ROBIN. 

Pist.  Tliis  punk  is  one  of  Cupid's  carriers  :  — 
Clap  on  more  sails ;  pursue,  up  with  your  fights :  " 
Give  fire  !  she   is   my  prize,  or  ocean  whelm  them 
all !  [Exit  PISTOL. 

Pal.  Say'st  thou  so,  old  Jack?  go  thy  ways;  I'll 
make  more  of  thy  old  body  than  I  have  done.  Will 
they  yet  look  after  thee  1  Wilt  thou,  after  the  ex- 

11  Of  all  loves  signifies  no  more  than  by  all  means.  It  is  again 
used  in  Othello  and  in  A  Midsummer-Night's  Dream. 

11  A  watchword. 

13  Figltis  are  the  waist  cloths  which  hang  round  about  the  ship 
to  hinder  men  from  being  seen  in  fight ;  or  any  ilace  whereiu  men 
may  cover  themselves,  and  ye.  use  their  arms. 


«C.   II.  OF    WINDSOR.  267 

pense  of  so  much  money,  be  now  a  gainer  ?  Good 
body,  J  thank  thee  :  let  them  say,  'tis  grossly  done ; 
so  it  be  fairly  done,  no  matter. 

Enter  BARDOLPH. 

Bard.  Sir  John,  there's  one  master  Brook  below 
would  fain  speak  with  you,  and  be  acquainted  with 
you  :  and  hath  sent  your  worship  a  morning's  draught 
of  sack.14 

FaL  Brook  is  his  name  ? 

Bard.  Ay,  sir. 

FaL  Call  him  in:  [Exit  BARDOLPH.]  Such 
Brooks  are  welcome  to  me,  that  o'erflow  such 
liquor.  Ah,  ha !  mistress  Ford  and  mistress  Page, 
have  I  encompass'd  you  ?  go  to;  via!  IS 

Re-enter  BARDOLPH,  with  FORD  disguised. 

Ford.  Bless  you,  sir. 

FaL  And  you,  sir :    Would  you  speak  with  me  ? 

Ford.  I  make  bold  to  press  with  so  little  prepara- 
tion upon  you. 

FaL  You're  welcome  :  What's  your  will  ?  Give 
us  leave,  drawer.  [Exit  BARDOLPH. 

Ford.  Sir,  I  am  a  gentleman  that  have  spent 
much :  my  name  is  Brook. 

14  It  seems  to  have  been  a  common  custom  in  taverns,  in  Shake- 
speare's time,  to  send  presents  of  wine  from  one  room  to  another 
either  as  a  memorial  of  friendship,  or  by  way  of  introduction  to 
acquaintance.  In  the  Parliamentary  History,  we  have  the  follow- 
ing  passage  from  The  Life  of  General  Monk,  by  Dr.  Price  :  "  I 
came  to  the  Three  Tuns,  before  Guildhall,  where  the  general  had 
quartered  two  nights  before.  I  entered  the  tavern  with  ;i  servart 
and  portmanteau,  and  asked  for  a  room,  which  I  had  scarce  got 
mto  but  wine  followed  me  us  a  present  from  some  citizens  desiring 
leave  to  drink  their  morning's  draught  with  me." 

16  Via,  an  Italian  word,  which  Florio  explains  :  —  •'<  An  advert 
of  encouragement,  on  away,  go  to,  away  forward,  go  oil,  dispatch. 


258  MERRY    WIVES  ACT   II 

Fal.  Good  master  Brook,  I  desire  more  acquaint- 
ance of  you. 

Ford.  Good  Sir  John,  I  sue  for  yours  :  not  to 
charge  you ;  for  I  must  let  you  understand,  I  think 
myself  in  better  plight  for  a  lender  than  you  are  : 
the  which  hath  something  embolden'd  me  to  this 
unseasori'd  intrusion  ;  for  they  say,  if  money  go  be 
fore,  all  ways  do  lie  open. 

Fal.  Money  is  a  good  soldier,  sir,  and  will  on. 

Ford.  Troth,  and  I  have  a  bag  of  money  here 
troubles  me :  if  you  will  help  me  to  bear  it,  Sir  John, 
take  all,  or  half,  for  easing  me  of  the  carriage. 

Fal.  Sir,  I  know  not  how  I  may  deserve  to  be 
your  porter. 

Ford.  I  will  tell  you,  sir,  if  you  will  give  me  the 
hearing. 

Fal.  Speak,  good  master  Brook ;  I  shall  be  glad 
to  be  your  servant. 

Ford.  Sir,  I  hear  you  are  a  scholar,  —  I  will  be 
brief  with  you,  —  and  you  have  been  a  man  long 
known  to  me,  though  I  had  never  so  good  means, 
as  desire,  to  make  myself  acquainted  with  you.  I 
shall  discover  a  thing  to  you,  wherein  I  must  very 
much  lay  open  mine  own  imperfection  :  but,  good 
Sir  John,  as  you  have  one  eye  upon  my  follies,  as 
you  hear  them  unfolded,  turn  another  into  the  regis- 
ter of  your  own ;  that  I  may  pass  with  a  reproof 
the  easier,  sith  16  you  yourself  know  how  easy  it  is 
to  be  such  an  offender. 

Fal.  Very  well,  sir  ;  proceed. 

Ford.  There  is  a  gentlewoman  in  this  town,  her 
husband's  name  is  Ford. 

Fal.  Well,  sir. 

Ford.  I   have   long  lov'd  her,  and,  I  protest  to 

10  Since. 


SC.  11.  OF    WINDSOR.  5i5& 

you,  bestowed  much  on  her  ;  followed  her  with  a 
doting  observance  ;  engross'd  opportunties  to  meet 
her ;  fee'd  every  slight  occasion  that  could  but  nig- 
gardly give  me  sight  of  her  ;  not  only  bought  many 
presents  to  give  her,  but  have  given  largely  to  many, 
to  know  what  she  would  have  given  :  briefly,  I  have 
pursu'd  her  as  love  hath  pursued  me ;  which  hath 
been  on  the  wing  of  all  occasions.  But  whatsoever 
I  have  merited,  either  in  my  mind  or  in  my  means, 
meed,  I  am  sure,  I  have  received  none ;  unless  ex- 
perience be  a  jewel :  that  I  have  purchased  at  an 
infinite  rate ;  and  that  hath  taught  me  to  say  this : 

Love  like  a  shadow  flies,  when  substance  love  pursues ; 
Pursuing  that  that  flies,  and  flying  what  pursues. 

Fal.  Have  you  receiv'd  no  promise  of  satisfac- 
tion at  her  hands  7 

Ford.  Never. 

Fal.  Have  you  importun'd  her  to  such  a  purpose  t 

Ford.  Never. 

Fal.  Of  what  quality  was  your  love,  then? 

Ford.  Like  a  fair  house  built  on  another  man's 
ground ;  so  that  I  have  lost  my  edifice,  by  mistaking 
the  place  where  I  erected  it. 

Fal.  To  what  purpose  have  you  unfolded  this  to 
me  1 

Ford.  When  I  have  told  you  that,  I  have  told  you 
all.  Some  say,  that,  though  she  appear  honest  to  me, 
yet  in  other  places  she  enlargeth  her  mirth  so  far, 
that  there  is  shrewd  construction  made  of  her.  Now, 
Sir  John,  here  is  the  heart  of  my  purpose  :  You  are 
&  gentleman  of  excellent  breeding,  admirable  dis- 
course, of  great  admittance,17  authentic  in  your 

That  is,  admitted  into  all,  or  the  greatest  ccmpanie* 


'•2t>U  MERRY    WIVES  ACT  IL 

place  and  person,  generally  allow'd  for  your  many 
war-like,  court-like,  and  learned  preparations. 

Pal  O,  sir  ! 

Ford.  Believe  it,  for  you  know  it :  —  There  is 
money  ;  spend  it,  spend  it :  spend  more  ;  spend  all 
I  have  ;  only  give  me  so  much  of  your  time  in 
exchange  of  it,  as  to  lay  an  amiable  siege  to  the 
honesty  of  this  Ford's  wife  :  use  your  art  of  wooing, 
win  her  consent  to  you  ;  if  any  man  may,  you  may 
as  soon  as  any. 

Fal.  Would  it  apply  well  to  the  vehemency  of 
your  affection,  that  I  should  win  what  you  would 
enjoy  ?  Methinks  you  prescribe  to  yourself  very 
preposterously. 

Ford.  O !  understand  my  drift :  She  dwells  so 
securely  on  the  excellency  of  her  honour,  that  the 
folly  of  my  soul  dares  not  present  itself :  she  is  too 
bright  to  be  look'd  against.  Now,  could  I  come  to 
her  with  any  detection  in  my  hand,  my  desires  had 
instance  and  argument  to  commend  themselves  ;  I 
could  drive  her  then  from  the  ward  of  her  purity, 
her  leputation,  her  marriage-vow,  and  a  thousand 
other  her  defences,  which  now  are  too  strongly  em- 
battled against  me :  What  say  you  to't,  Sir  John  1 

Fal.  Master  Brook,  I  will  first  make  bold  with 
your  money  ;  next  give  me  your  hand  ;  and  last,  as 
I  am  a  gentleman,  you  shall,  if  you  will,  enjoy 
Ford's  wife. 

Ford.  O  good  sir  ! 

Fal.  I  say  you  shall. 

Ford.  Want  no  money,  Sir  John  ;  you  shall  want 
none. 

Fal.  Want  no  mistress  Ford,  master  Brook  ;  you 
shall  want  none.  I  shall  be  with  her,  (I  may  tell 
you,)  by  her  own  appointment ;  even  as  you  came 


SO.  II.  OF    WINDSOR.  261 

in  to  me,  her  assistant,  or  go-between,  parted  from 
me  :  I  say  I  shall  be  with  her  between  ten  and 
eleven  ;  for  at  that  time  the  jealous  rascally  knave, 
her  husband,  will  be  forth.  Come  you  to  me  at 
night ;  you  shall  know  how  I  speed. 

Ford.  I  am  blest  in  your  acquaintance.  Do  you 
know  Ford,  sir? 

Fed.  Hang  him,  poor  cuckoldly  knave !  I  know 
him  not :  —  yet  I  wrong  him  to  call  him  poor ;  they 
say  the  jealous  wittolly  knave  hath  masses  of 
money  ;  for  the  which  his  wife  seems  to  me  well- 
favour'd  :  I  will  use  her  as  the  key  of  the  cuckoldly 
rogue's  coffer ;  and  there's  my  harvest-home. 

Ford.  I  would  you  knew  Ford,  sir,  that  you 
might  avoid  him,  if  you  saw  him. 

Fal.  Hang  him,  mechanical  salt-butter  rogue ! 
I  will  stare  bira  out  of  his  wits  ;  I  will  awe  him 
with  my  cudg^' :  it  shall  hang  like  a  meteor  o'er  the 
cuckold's  horis.  Master  Brook,  thou  shall  know  1 
will  predominate  o'er  the  peasant,  and  thou  shalt  lie 
with  his  wife.  —  Come  to  me  soon  at  night:  —  Ford's 
a  knave,  and  I  will  aggravate  his  style ; 18  thou, 
master  Brook,  shalt  know  him  for  a  knave  and 
cuckold  :  —  come  to  me  soon  at  night.  [Exit. 

Ford.  What  a  damn'd  Epicurean  rascal  is  this ! 
—  My  heart  is  ready  to  crack  with  impatience.  — 
Who  says  this  is  improvident  jealousy  1  —  My  wife 
hath  sent  to  him,  the  hour  is  fix'd,  the  match  ia 
made.  Would  any  man  have  thought  this  ?  —  Seo 
the  hell  of  having  a  false  woman !  my  bed  shall  be 

18  That  is,  /  will  add  more  titles  to  those  he  already  has.  The 
phrase  is  from  the  Herald's  Office.  Thus  in  Heywood's  Golden 
Age  :  "  I  will  create  lords  of  a  greater  style ; "  and  in  Spenser'i 
Faery  Queen : 

"  A.s  to  abandon  that  which  doth  contain 
Your  honour's  style,  that  is,  your  warlike  shield."         JJ. 


2()2  MERRV    WIVES  AOT  II, 

abus'd,  my  coffers  ransack'd,  my  reputation  gnawn 
at ;  and  I  shall  not  only  receive  this  villanous  wrong 
but  stand  under  the  adoption  of  abominable  terms, 
and  by  him  that  does  me  this  wrong.  Terms  ! 
names  !  —  Amaimon  sounds  well ;  Lucifer,  well ; 
Barbason,19  well ;  yet  they  are  devils'  additions,  the 
names  of  fiends  :  but  cuckold !  wittol 20  cuckold  ! 
the  devil  himself  hath  not  such  a  name.  Page  is  an 
ass,  a  secure  ass;  he  will  trust  his  wife,  he  will  not 
be  jealous  :  J  will  rather  trust  a  Fleming  with  my 
butter,  parson  Hugh  the  Welchman  with  my  cheese, 
an  Irishman  with  my  aqua-vitae 2I  bottle,  or  a  thief  to 
walk  my  ambling  gelding,  than  my  wife  with  herself: 
then  she  plots,  then  she  ruminates,  then  she  devises ; 
and  what  they  tliink  in  their  hearts  they  may  effect, 
they  will  break  their  hearts  but  they  will  effect. 
Heaven  be  prais'd  for  my  jealousy  !  —  Eleven  o'clock 
the  hour :  —  1  will  prevent  this,  detect  my  wife,  be 
reveng'd  on  Falstaff,  and  laugh  at  Page.  I  will  about 
it ;  better  three  hours  too  soon  than  a  minute  too 
late.  Fie,  fie,  fie  !  cuckold  !  cuckold  !  cuckold  ! 

[Exit 

SCENE  III.     Windsor  Park. 

Enter  CAIUS  and  RUGBY. 

Caius.  Jack  Rugby  ! 

Rug.  Sir. 

Caius.  Vat  is  de  clock,  Jack  1 

19  Reginald  Scot,  in  his  Discovery  of  Witchcraft,  may  be  con 
suited  concerning  these  demons.  "  Amaimon,"  he  says,  "  was 
King  of  the  East,  and  Barbatos  a  great  countie  or  earle."  But 
Randle  Holme,  in  his  Academy  of  Armory,  informs  us  that 
"  Amaymnn  is  the  chief  whose  dominion  is  on  the  north  part  of 
the  infernal  gulph ;  and  that  Barbatos  is  like  a  Sagittarius,  and 
has  thirt)  legions  under  him." 

*°  A  tame  contented  cuckold  knowing  nimself  to  be  one.  From 
the  Saxon  wittan,  to  know 

91   Usquebaugh. 


at,.  III.  OF    WINDSOR  263 

Rug  'Tis  past  the  hour,  sir,  that  Sir  Hugh 
prornis'd  to  meet. 

Caius.  By  gar,  he  has  save  his  soul,  dat  he  is  no 
come :  he  has  pray  his  Pible  veil,  dat  he  is  no 
come  :  by  gar,  Jack  Rugby,  he  is  dead  already,  il 
he  be  come. 

Rug.  He  is  wise,  sir ;  he  knew  your  worship 
would  kill  him,  if  he  came. 

Caius.  By  gar,  de  herring  is  no  dead,  so  as  I  vill 
kill  him.  Take  your  rapier,  Jack ;  I  vill  tell  you 
how  I  vill  kill  him. 

Rug.  Alas,  sir !  I  cannot  fence. 

Caius.  Villainy,  take  your  rapier. 

Hug.  Forbear ;  here's  company. 

Enter  Host,  SHALLOW,  SLENDER,  and  PAOJ. 

Host.  'Bless  thee,  bully  doctor. 

Shal.  Save  you,  master  doctor  Caius. 

Page.  Now,  good  master  doctor ! 

Slen.  Give  you  good-morrow,  sir. 

Caius.  Vat  be  all  you,  one,  two,  tree,  four,  come 
for? 

Host.  To  see  thee  fight,  to  see  thee  foin,1  to  see 
thee  traverse,  to  see  thee  here,  to  see  thee  there  ;  to 
see  thee  pass  thy  punto,  thy  stock,  thy  reverse,  thy 
distance,  thy  montant.8  Is  he  dead,  my  Ethiopian  1 
is  he  dead,  my  Francisco  1  ha,  bully  !  What  says 
my  ^Esculapius  1  my  Galen  ?  my  heart  of  elder  ? J 
ha !  is  he  dead,  bully-Stale  1  *  is  he  dead  1 

1  The  ancient  term  for  making  a  thrust  in  fencing. 

*  Terms  used  in  fencing ;  punto,  stock,  (stoccado,)  reverse, 
(reverso,)  and  montant,  being  from  the  Italian.  In  Much  Ado 
about  Nothing,  Beatrice  calls  Benedick  Signior  Montanto.  H. 

3  Heart  of  elder.     The  joke  is  that  elder  has  a  heart  of  pith 

4  Bully- Stair  and  king-Urinal  will  be  sufficiently  obvious  tr 
those  who    recollect  the  prevalence  of  empirical  water- doctor- 


264  MERRY   WIVES  ACT  II 

Caius.  By  gar,  he  is  de  coward  Jack  priest  of  de 
vorld ;  he  is  not  show  his  face. 

Host.  Thou  art  a  Castilian  king-Urinal !  Hector 
of  Greece,  my  boy  ! 

Caius.  I  pray  you,  bear  vitness  dat  me  have  stay 
six  or  seven,  two,  tree  hours  for  liim,  and  he  is  no 
come. 

ShaL  He  is  the  wiser  man,  master  doctor  :  he  is 
a  curer  of  souls,  and  you  a  curer  of  bodies ;  if  you 
should  fight,  you  go  against  the  hair  of  your  profes- 
sions :  is  it  not  true,  master  Page  1 

Page.  Master  Shallow,  you  have  yourself  been 
a  great  fighter,  though  now  a  man  of  peace. 

ShaL  Bodykins,  master  Page,  though  I  now  be 
old,  and  of  the  peace,  if  I  see  a  sword  out,  my  fin- 
ger itches  to  make  one  :  though  we  are  justices,  and 
doctors,  and  churchmen,  master  Page,  we  have 
some  salt  of  our  youth  in  us;  we  are  the  sons  of 
women,  master  Page. 

Page.  'Tis  true,  master  Shallow. 

Sfial.  It  will  be  found  so,  master  Page.  Master 
doctor  Caius,  I  am  come  to  fetch  you  home.  I  am 
sworn  of  the  peace  :  you  have  show'd  yourself  a 
wise  physician,  and  Sir  Hugh  hath  shown  himself  a 
wise  and  patient  churchman :  You  must  go  with  me, 
master  doctor. 

Host.  Pardon,  guest-justice  :  —  A  word,  mon 
aieur  Mock-water.5 

Caius.  Mock-vater  !  vat  is  dat  ? 

Host.  Mock-water,  in  our  English  tongue,  ia 
valour,  bully. 

Castilian  appears  to  have  been  generally  used  as  a  term  of  re 
proach  after  the  defeat  of  the  Spanish  Armada.  The  Host  availi 
himself  of  the  poor  doctor's  ignorance  of  English  phraseology  in 
applying  to  him  these  high-sounding  opprobrious  epithets  ;  tie  lierv 
means  to  call  him  coward. 

6  Probably  some  allusion  to  the  doctor's  medical  practice.   H 


3C.  111.  OF    WINDSOR-  265 

Caius.  By  gar,  then  I  have  as  much  mock-vatex 
as  de  Englishman  :  —  Scurvy  jack-dog  priest !  by 
gar,  me  vil  cut  his  ears. 

Host.  He  will  clapper-claw  thee  tightly,  bully. 

Coins.  Clapper-de-claw !  vat  is  dat  ? 

Host.  That  is,  he  will  make  thee  amends. 

Caius.  By  gar,  me  do  look,  he  shall  clapper-de- 
daw  me  ;  for,  by  gar,  me  vill  have  it. 

Host.  And  I  will  provoke  him  to't,  or  let  him  wag. 

Caius.  Me  tank  you  for  dat. 

Host.  And  moreover,  bully,  —  But  first,  master 
guest,  and  master  Page,  and  eke  cavalero  Slender, 
go  you  through  the  town  to  Frogmore. 

[Aside  to  them. 

Page.  Sir  Hugh  is  there,  is  he  ? 

Host.  He  is  there :  see  what  humour  he  is  in ; 
and  I  will  bring  the  doctor  about  by  the  fields  :  will 
it  do  well  1 

Shal.  We  will  do  it. 

Page,  Shal.,  and  Slen.  Adieu,  good  master  doctor. 
[Exeunt  PAGE,  SHAL.,  and  SLEN. 

Caius.  By  gar,  me  vill  kill  de  priest ;  for  he  speak 
for  a  jack-an-ape  to  Anne  Page. 

Host.  Let  him  die :  Sheath  thy  impatience  $ 
throw  cold  water  on  thy  choler  :  go  about  the  fields 
with  me  through  Frogmore ;  I  will  bring  thee 
where  mistress  Anne  Page  is,  at  a  farm-house  a 
feasting  ;  and  thou  shall  woo  her.  Cried  I  aim  1  * 
said  I  well  .' 


•  The  usual  reading  here  is,  Cride-game,  said  I  well  ?  What 
is  meant  by  Cride-game,  and  whether  it  be  used  as  an  epithet  of 
Dr.  Caius  or  of  Anne  Page,  nobody  can  tell.  Much  learned  ink 
has  been  shed  on  the  question ;  but  to  little  purpose,  save  to  show 
that  the  writers  could  not  ascertain  the  right  reading.  We  have 
adopted  the  one  proposed  by  Mr.  Dyce  :  Cried  I  aim  ?  that  is, 
did  I  give  you  encouragement  1  siid  I  well  1  This  reading  u 


'J66  MERRY    WIVES  ACT  111 

Coins.  By  gar,  me  dank  you  vor  dat :  by  gar,  I 
love  you  ;  and  I  shall  procure-a  you  de  good  guest, 
de  earl,  de  knight,  de  lords,  de  gentlemen,  my  pa- 
tients 

Host.  For  the  wltich  I  will  be  thy  adversary 
towards  Anne  Page  :  said  I  well  ? 

Ccdus.  By  gar,  'tis  good  ;  veil  said. 

Host.  Let  us  wag,  then. 

Ccdus.  Come  at  my  heels,  Jack  Rugby.     [Exeunt. 


ACT   III. 

SCENE    I.      A  Field  near  Frogmore. 

Enter  Sir  HUGH  EVANS  and  SIMPLE. 

Eva.  I  pray  you  now,  good  master  Slender's 
serving-man,  and  friend  Simple  by  your  name,  which 
way  have  you  look'd  for  master  Caius,  that  calls 
himself  Doctor  of  Physic  ? 

Sim.  Marry,  sir,  the  Petty-ward,  the  Park-ward,1 
every  way ;  old  Windsor  way,  and  every  way  but 
the  town  way. 

Eva,  I  most  fehemently  desire  you,  you  will  also 
look  that  way. 

Sim.  I  will,  sir.  [Retiring. 

Eva.  Pless  my  soul !  how  full  of  cholers  I  aru, 
and  trempling  of  mind  !  —  I  shall  be  glad,  if  he  have 
deceived  me.  —  How  melancholies  I  am !  —  I  will 

supported  by  what  Ford  says  afterwards  :  "  To  these  violent  pro- 
ceedings  all  my  neighbours  shall  cry  aim."  See  Act  iii.  sc.  2 
note  2.  H. 

1  These  were  names  of  streets  or  places  about  Windsor 
Probably  the  Little  Park  was  then  sometimes  called  Petty.  Thus 
a  part  of  Cambridge  is  named  Petty-cury,  and  in  Westminster  is 
a.  place  known  as  Petty-France.  n 


**,.    i  OF    WINDSOR.  267 

knog  his  urinals  about  his  knave's  costard,  when  I 
have  good  opportunities  for  the  'ork:  —  pless  my 
soul !  [Sing* 

To  shallow  rivers,  to  whose  falls 

Melodious  birds  sing  madrigals ; 

There  will  we  make  our  peds  of  roses, 

<Vnd  a  thousand  fragrant  posies. 
To  shallow  — 

Mercy  on  me !    I  have  a  great  dispositions  to  cry. 

Melodious  birds  sing  madrigals ;  — 
Whenas  I  sat  in  Pabylon,8 — 
And  a  thousand  vagram  posies. 
To  shallow  — 

Sim.  [Coming  forward.]  Yonder  he  is  coming  this 
way,  Sir  Hugh. 

Eva.  He's  welcome.  — 

To  shallow  rivers,  to  whose  falls  — 
Heaven  prosper  the  right !  —  What  weapons  is  he  ? 

*  In  his  "  cholers  and  trempling  of  mind "  Sir  Hugh  uncon- 
sciously runs  parts  of  Psalms  and  ballads  together.  This  line  if 
from  an  old  version  of  the  137th  Psalm : 

«  Whenas  wee  sate  in  Babylon, 
The  rivers  round  about, 
And  in  remembrance  of  Sion 
The  teares  for  griefe  burst  out." 

The  other  lines  are  from  the  charming  pastoral  thus  mentioned  by 
Izaak  Walton  :  "  'Twas  a  handsome  Milk-maid,  that  had  not  yet 
attainec  so  much  age  and  wisdom  as  to  load  her  mind  with  any 
fears  of  many  things  that  will  never  be ;  but  she  cast  away  all 
care,  and  sung  like  a  nightingale  :  her  voice  was  good,  and  the 
ditty  fitted  for  it ;  'twas  that  smoothe  song  which  was  made  by 
Kit  Marlowe,  now  at  least  fifty  years  ago ;  and  the  Milk-maid's 
mother  sung  an  answer  to  it,  which  was  made  by  Sir  Walter 
Raleigh  in  his  younger  days.  They  were  old-fashioned  poetry, 
but  choicely  good."  Both  songs  may  be  found  at  the  end  of  th« 
play.  —  The  humour  of  these  musical  snatches,  broken  and  dis- 
ordered as  they  are  by  the  anger  and  fear  of  the  pugnacious  par- 
=011.  is  inost  rare  and  exquisite.  u 


2(58  MERRY    WIVES  ACT  It*. 

Sim.  No  weapons,  sir.  There  comes  my  master, 
master  Shallow,  and  another  gentleman  from  Frog- 
more,  over  the  stile,  this  way. 

Eva.  Pray  you,  give  me  my  gown ;  or  else  keep 
it  in  your  arms 

Enter  PAGE,  SHALLOW,  and  SLENDER. 

Shal.  How  now,  master  parson  !  Good  morrow, 
good  Sir  Hugh.  Keep  a  gamester  from  the  dice,  pud 
a  good  student  from  his  book,  and  it  is  wonderful. 

Slen.  Ah,  sweet  Anne  Page  ! 

Page.  Save  you,  good  Sir  Hugh ! 

Eva.  Pless  you  from  his  mercy  sake,  all  of  you ! 

Shal.  What !  the  sword  and  the  word  1  do  you 
study  them  both,  master  parson  ? 

Page.  And  youthful  still,  in  your  doublet  and 
hose,  this  raw  rheumatic  day  ? 

Eva.  There  is  reasons  and  causes  for  it. 

Page.  We  are  come  to  you  to  do  a  good  office, 
master  parson. 

Eva.  Fery  well :    What  is  it  ? 

Page.  Yonder  is  a  most  reverend  gentleman,  who, 
belike  having  received  wrong  by  some  person,  is 
at  most  odds  with  his  own  gravity  and  patience 
that  ever  you  saw. 

Shal.  I  have  lived  fourscore  years  and  upward ; 
I  never  heard  a  man  of  his  place,  gravity,  and  learn- 
ing, so  wide  of  his  own  respect. 

Eva.  What  is  he  7 

Page.  I  think  you  know  him  ;  master  doctor 
Caius,  the  renowned  French  physician. 

Eva.  Got's  will,  and  his  passion  of  my  heart !  I 
had  as  lief  you  would  tell  me  of  a  mess  of  porridge. 

Page.  Why? 

Eva    He  has  no  more  knowledge  in  Hibbocrates 


SC.    I.  OF    WINDSOR.  269 

and  Galen,  —  and  he  is  a  knave  besides  ;  a  cow- 
ardly knave,  as  you  would  desires  to  be  acquainted 
withal. 

Page.  I  warrant  you,  he's  the  man  should  fight 
with  him. 

Slen.  O,  sweet  Anne  Page  ! 

ShaL  It  appears  so  by  his  weapons :  —  Keep 
them  asunder  :  —  here  comes  doctor  Caius. 

Enter  Host,  CAIUS,  and  RUGBY. 

Page.  Nay,  good  master  parson,  keep  in  your 
weapon. 

ShaL  So  do  you,  good  master  doctor. 

Host.  Disarm  them,  and  let  them  question ;  let 
them  keep  their  limbs  whole,  and  hack  our  English. 

Caius.  I  pray  you,  let-a  me  speak  a  word  vit 
your  ear :  Verefore  vill  you  not  meet-a  me  ? 

Eva.  Pray  you,  use  your  patience :  In  good 
time. 

Caius.  By  gar,  you  are  de  coward,  de  Jack  dog, 
John  ape. 

Eva.  Pray  you,  let  us  not  be  laughing-stogs  to 
other  men's  humours  ;  I  desire  you  in  friendship, 
and  I  will  one  way  or  other  make  you  amends.  — 
I  will  knog  your  urinals  about  your  knave's  cogs- 
comb,  for  missing  your  meetings  and  appointments. 

Caius.  Didble !  —  Jack  Rugby,  —  mine  Host  de 
Jarterre,  have  I  not  stay  for  him,  to  kill  him  1  hav« 
I  not,  at  de  place  I  did  appoint  1 

Eva.  As  I  am  a  Christians  soul,  now,  look  you, 
this  is  the  place  appointed :  I'll  be  judgment  by 
mine  Host  of  the  Garter. 

Host.  Peace,  I  say  !  Gallia  and  Guallia,  French 
and  Welch ;  soul-curer  and  body-curer. 


270  MERRY    WIVES  ACT  I1L 

Caius.  Ay,  dat  is  very  good  :  excellent ! 

Host.  Peace,  I  say !  hear  mine  Host  of  the  Garter. 
Am  I  politic  ?  am  I  subtle  1  am  I  a  Machiavel  ? 
Shall  I  lose  my  doctor  1  no  ;  he  gives  me  the  po- 
tions and  the  motions.  Shall  I  lose  my  parson  ? 
my  priest,  my  Sir  Hugh  ?  no ;  he  gives  me  the  prov- 
erbs and  the  noverbs.  —  Give  me  thy  hand,  terres- 
trial ;  so  :  —  Give  me  thy  hand,  celestial ;  so.  — 
Boys  of  art,  I  have  deceiv'd  you  both  ;  I  have  di- 
rected you  to  wrong  places :  your  hearts  are  mighty, 
your  skins  are  whole,  and  let  burnt  sack  be  the 
issue.  —  Come,  lay  their  swords  to  pawn.  —  Follow 
me,  lad  of  peace  ;  follow,  follow,  follow. 

ShaL  Trust  me,  a  mad  host :  —  Follow,  gentle- 
men, follow. 

Slcn.  O,  sweet  Anne  Page  ! 

[Exeunt  SHAL.,  SLEN.,  PAGE,  and  Host. 

Caius.  Ha !  do  I  perceive  dat  ?  have  you  make- 
a  de  sot 3  of  us  ?  ha,  ha ! 

Eva.  This  is  well ;  he  has  made  us  his  vlouting- 
stog.  —  I  desire  you,  that  we  may  be  friends  ;  and 
let  us  knog  our  prains  together,  to  be  revenge  on 
this  same  scall,4  scurvy,  cogging  companion,  the 
Host  of  the  Garter. 

Caius.  By  gar,  vit  all  my  heart :  He  promise  to 
bring  me  vere  is  Anne  Page  :  by  gar,  he  deceive 
me  too. 

Eva.  Well,  I  will  smite  his  noddles  :  —  Pray  you, 
follow.  [Exeunt. 

*  Fool  i  from  the  French. 

4  That  is,  scall'd-hfad,  a  term  of  reproach.  Chaucer  imprecates 
on  the  scrivener  who  miswrites  his  verse : 

"  Under  thy  long  locks  mayest  thou  have  the  scalle." 


8C.  II.  OF    WINDSOR.  271 

SCENE    II.     A  Street  in  Windsor 

Enter  Mrs.  PAGE  and  ROBIN. 

Mrs.  Page.  Nay,  keep  your  way,  little  gallant : 
you  were  wont  to  be  a  follower,  but  now  you  are  a 
leader  :  Whether  had  you  rather,  lead  mine  eyes,  or 
eye  your  master's  heels  ? 

Rob.  I  had  rather,  forsooth,  go  before  you  like  a 
man,  than  follow  him  like  a  dwarf. 

Mrs.  Page.  O  !  you  are  a  flattering  boy  :  now,  I 
see,  you'll  be  a  courtier. 

Enter  FORD. 

Ford.  Well  met,  mistress  Page :  Whither  go  you  1 

Mrs.  Page.  Truly,  sir,  to  see  your  wife :  Is  she 
at  home  1 

Ford.  Ay  ;  and  as  idle  as  she  may  hang  together, 
for  want  of  company.  I  think,  if  your  husbands 
were  dead,  you  two  would  marry. 

Mrs.  Page.  Be  sure  of  that,  —  two  other  hus- 
bands. 

Ford.   Where  had  you  this  pretty  weather-cock  ? 

Mrs.  Page.  I  cannot  tell  what  the  dickens  his 
name  is  my  husband  had  him  of:  What  do  you  call 
your  knight's  name,  sirrah  1 

Rob.  Sir  John  Falstaff. 

Ford.  Sir  John  Falstaff ! 

Mrs.  Page.  He,  he ;  I  can  never  hit  on's  name. 
There  is  such  a  league  between  my  good  man  and 
he !  —  Is  your  wife  at  home,  indeed  1 

Ford.  Indeed,  she  is. 

Mrs.  Page.  By  your  leave,  sir ;  —  I  am  sick,  till 
I  see  her.  [Exeunt  Mrs.  PAGE  and  ROBIN. 

Ford.  Has  Page  any  brains  7  hath  he  any  eyes  T 


272  3IERRY   WIVES  ACT  IIV 

hath  he  any  thinking  ?  Sure,  they  sleep  ;  he  hath 
no  use  of  them.  Why,  this  boy  will  carry  a  letter 
twenty  mile,1  as  easy  as  a  cannon  will  shoot  point 
blank  twelve  score.  He  pieces  out  his  wife's  incli- 
nation ;  he  gives  her  folly  motion  and  advantage  : 
and  now  she's  going  to  my  wife,  and  Falstaff's  boy 
with  her.  A  man  may  hear  this  shower  sing  in  the 
wind! — and  Falstaff's  boy  with  her!  —  Good  plots! 
—  they  are  laid  ;  and  our  revolted  wives  share  dam- 
nation together.  Well ;  I  will  take  him  ;  then  tor- 
ture my  wife,  pluck  the  borrowed  veil  of  modesty 
from  the  so-seeming  mistress  Page,  divulge  Page 
himself  for  a  secure  and  wilful  Actseon ;  and  to  these 
violent  proceedings  all  my  neighbours  shall  cry  aim.* 
[Clock  strikes.]  The  clock  gives  me  my  cue,  and 
my  assurance  bids  me  search  where  I  shall  find 
Falstaff:  I  shall  be  rather  prais'd  for  this,  than 
mock'd  ;  for  it  is  as  positive  as  the  earth  is  firm, 
that  Falstaff  is  there  :  I  will  go. 

Enter  PAGE,  SHALLOW,  SLENDER,  Hcst,  Sir  HUGH 
EVANS,  CAIUS,  and  RUGBY. 

Shal.,  Page,  Sfc.  Well  met,  master  Ford. 
Ford.  Trust  me,  a  good'  knot :  I  have  good  cheer 
at  home ;  and  I  pray  you  all  go  with  me. 
ShaL  I  must  excuse  myself,  master  Ford. 

1  The  use  of  the  singular  for  the  plural,  especially  in  statements 
of  time  and  distance,  was  not  uncommon  in  Shakespeare's  time 
Thus  in  The  Tempest  Prospero  says,  —  "Twelve  year  since, 
Miranda,  twelve  year  since,  thy  father  was  the  duke  of  M''an."  H. 

*  To  cry  aim,  in  archery,  was  to  encourage  the  arrhers  by  cry- 
ing out  aim  when  they  were  about  to  shoot.  Hence  it  came  to  b« 
used  for  to  applaud  or  encourage,  in  a  general  sense.  It  seems  tha 
the  spectators  in  general  cried  aim  occasionally,  as  a  mere  word  of 
encouragement  or  applause.  Thus,  in  K.  John,  Act  ii.  sc.  1  : 

"  It  ill  beseems  this  presence  to  cry  aim 
To  these  ill-tuned  repetitions." 


«C.  II.  OF    WINDSOR.  273 

Slen.  And  so  must  I,  sir :  we  have  appointed  to 
dine  with  mistress  Anne,  and  I  would  not  break  with 
her  for  more  money  than  I'll  speak  of. 

S/ial,  We  have  linger'd  about  a  match  between 
Anne  Page  and  my  cousin  Slender,  and  this  day 
we  shall  have  our  answer. 

Slen.  I  hope  I  have  your  good  will,  father  Page. 

Page.  You  have,  master  Slender  ;  I  stand  wholly 
for  you:  —  but  my  wife,  master  doctor,  is  for  you 
altogether. 

Caius.  Ay,  by  gar ;  and  de  maid  is  love-a  me . 
my  nursh-a  Quickly  tell  me  so  mush. 

Host.  What  say  you  to  young  master  Fenton  ? 
he  capers,  he  dances,  he  has  eyes  of  youth,  he  writes 
verses,  he  speaks  holiday,3  he  smells  April  and 
May :  he  will  carry't,  he  will  carry't ;  'tis  in  his 
buttons  ; 4  he  will  carry't. 

Page.  Not  by  my  consent,  I  promise  you.  The 
gentleman  is  of  no  having :  6  he  kept  company  with 
the  wild  Prince  and  Poins ;  he  is  of  too  high  a  re- 
gion ;  he  knows  too  much.  No,  he  shall  not  knit  a 
knot  in  his  fortunes  with  the  finger  of  my  substance  : 
if  he  take  her,  let  him  take  her  simply  :  the  wealth 

3  To  speak  out  of  the  common  style.     Thus  in  Hotspur's  ac- 
count of  the  dandy  lord  :  "  With  many  holiday  and  lady  terms  he 
questioned  me."     He  smells  April  and  May ;  that  is,  smells  of 
them.  H. 

4  This  is  generally  thought  an  allusion  to  the   custom  among 
rustic  lovers  of  carrying  the  flowers,  called  bachelor's  buttons,  in 
their  pockets,  to  try  whether  they  will  grow  there  ;  the  grow- 
ing being  held   as  a  pledge  of  success  in  their  loves.     We  are 
told,  however,  that  a  similar  phrase,  —  "  It  does   not  lie  in  youi 
breeches,"  —  means,  It  is  not  within  your  compass,  that  is,  youi 
power.     So  that  the  phrase,  'tis  in  his  buttons,  would  mean,  he't 
the  man  to  do  it ;  a  sense  which  the  context  plainly  warrants,  if 
•ot  requires.  H. 

'  That  is,  fortune  or  possessions.     So,  in  Twelfth  Niglil  i 

"  My  having  is  not  much  j 
I'll  make  division  of  my  present  with  you  : 
Hold,  there  is  half  my  coffer." 


274  MERRY    WIVES 

I  have  waits  on  my  consent,  and  my  consent  goes 
not  that  way. 

Ford.  I  beseech  you,  heartily,  some  of  you  go 
home  with  me  to  dinner :  besides  your  cheer,  you 
shall  have  sport ;  I  will  show  you  a  monster.  — 
Master  doctor,  you  shall  go  :  —  so  shall  you,  master 
Page  ;  —  and  you,  Sir  Hugh. 

Shal.  Well,  fare  you  well :  —  We  shall  have  the 
freer  wooing  at  master  Page's. 

[Exeunt  SHAL.  and  SLEN. 

Coins.  Go  home,  John  Rugby  ;  I  come  anon. 

[Exit  RUGBY. 

Host.  Farewell,  my  hearts :  I  will  to  my  honest 
knight  Falstaff,  and  drink  canary  with  him. 

[Exit  Host. 

Ford.  [Aside.]  I  think  I  shall  drink  in  pipe- 
wine  6  first  with  him ;  I'll  make  him  dance.  Will 
you  go,  gentles  ? 

All.  Have  with  you,  to  see  this  monster. 

[Exeunt. 

SCENE  HI.     A  Room  in  FORD'S  House. 

Enter  Mrs.  FORD  and  Mrs.  PAGE. 

Mrs.  Ford.  What,  John  !    what,  Robert ! 
Mrs.  Page.    Quickly,    quickly :    Is    the    buck 
basket  — 

Mrs.  Ford.  I  warrant :  —  What,  Robin,  I  say 

Enter  Servants  with  a  large  basket. 

Mrs.  Page.  Come,  come,  come. 
Mrs.  Ford.  Here,  set  it  down. 

6  Canary  is  the  name  of  a  dance  as  well  as  of  a  wine.  Pipe-veim 
is  wine  not  from  the  bottle  but  the  pipe  or  cask.  The  jest  con- 
gists  in  the  ambiguity  of  the  word,  which  signifies  both  a  cask  of 
wine  and  a  musical  instrument.  — "  I'll  give  him  pipe  wine,  which 
will  make  him  dance." 


uc.  in.  or  WINDSOR.  27& 

Mrs.  Page  Give  your  men  the  charge :  we  must 
be  brief. 

Mrs.  Ford.  Marry,  as  I  told  you  before,  John 
and  Robert,  be  ready  here  hard  by  in  the  brewhouse ; 
and,  when  I  suddenly  call  you,  come  forth,  and 
(without  any  pause  or  staggering)  take  this  basket 
on  your  shoulders  :  that  done,  trudge  with  it  in  all 
haste,  and  carry  it  among  the  whitsters  '  in  Datchet 
mead,  and  there  empty  it  in  the  muddy  ditch,  close 
by  the  Thames'  side. 

Mrs.  Page.  You  will  do  it? 

Mrs.  Ford.  I  have  told  them  over  and  over ;  they 
lack  no  direction:  Be  gone,  and  come  when  you 
are  called.  [Exeunt  Servants. 

Mrs.  Page.  Here  comes  little  Robin. 

Enter   ROBIN. 

Mrs.  Ford.  How  now,  my  eyas-musket  1  *  what 
news  with  you  1 

Rob.  My  master  Sir  John  is  come  in  at  your  back 
door,  mistress  Ford ;  and  requests  your  company. 

Mrs.  Page.  You  little  Jack-a-Lent,3  have  you 
been  true  to  us  ? 

1  Bleachers  of  linen. 

1  The  musket  is  a  small  sparrow-hawk ;  eyas  a  general  name 
for  a  young  unfledged  hawk  of  any  kind.  Thus  in  Spenser, 
Faery  Queen,  Book  I.  Can.  xi.  stan.  34 : 

"  As  eagle,  fresh  out  of  the  ocean  wave, 
Where  he  hath  lefte  his  plumes  all  hory  gray, 
And  deckt  himselfe  with  fethers  youthly  gay, 
Like  eyas  hawke  up  mounts  unto  the  skies, 
His  newly-budded  pineons  to  assay." 

And  again  in  his  Hymn  of  Heavenly  Love  : 

"  Ere  flitting  Time  could  wag  his  eyas  wings 
About  that  mightie  bound  which  doth  embrace 
The  rolling  spheres."  H, 

*  A  puppet  that  used  to  be  thrown  at  in  Lent.     So ,  in  Jonson'f 


276  MERRY    WIVES  ACT  11 1 

Rob.  Ay,  I'll  be  sworn:  My  master  knows  not 
of  your  being  here ;  and  hath  threaten'd  to  put  me 
into  everlasting  liberty,  if  I  tell  ycu  of  it ;  for  he 
swears  he'll  turn  me  away. 

Mrs.  Page.  Thou  art  a  good  boy  :  this  secrecy 
of  thine  shall  be  a  tailor  to  thee,  and  shall  make 
thee  a  new  doublet  and  hose.  —  I'll  go  hide  me. 

Mrs.  Ford.  Do  so  :  —  Go  tell  thy  master,  I  am 
alone.  Mistress  Page,  remember  you  your  cue. 

[Exit  ROBIN, 

Mrs.  Page.  I  warrant  thee :  if  I  do  not  act  it, 
luss  me.  [Exit  Mrs.  PAGE. 

Mrs.  Ford.  Go  to  then:  we'll  use  this  unwhole- 
some humidity,  this  gross  watery  pumpion ;  —  we'll 
teach  him  to  know  turtles  from  jays.4 

Enter  FALSTAFF. 

FaL  Have  I  caught  thee,  my  heavenly  jewel  ?  * 
Why,  now  let  me  die,  for  I  have  liv'd  long  enough ; 
this  is  the  period  of  my  ambition :  O  this  blessed 
hour  ! 

Mrs.  Ford.  O,  sweet  Sir  John  ! 

FaL  Mistress  Ford,  I  cannot  cog,  I  cannot  prate, 
mistress  Ford.  Now  shall  I  sin  in  my  wish:  I 

Tale  of  a  Tub  :  "  On  an  Ash- Wednesday,  where  thou  didst  stand 
fix  weeks  the  Jack  o'  Lent,  for  boys  to  hurl  three  throws  a  penny 
at  thee."  And  so,  in  Quarles  : 

"  How  like  a  Jack-a-Lent 

He  stands,  for  boys  to  spend  their  Shrove-tide  throws, 
Or  like  a  puppet  made  to  frighten  crows."  H 

4  That  is,  honest  women  from  loose  ones.  The  word  Putta  in 
Italian  signifies  both  a  jay  and  a  loose  woman.  So,  in  Cymbe« 
line  :  "  some  jay  of  Italy  whose  mother  was  her  painting." 

6  The  second  song  in  Sidney's  Astrophel  and  Stella  begins  thus 

"  Have  I  caught  my  heavenly  jewel 
Teaching  sleep  most  fair  to  be  ?  "  H 


SC    III.  OF    WINDSOR.  277 

would  thy  husband  were  dead :  I'll  speak  it  before 
the  best  lord,  I  would  make  thee  my  lady. 

Mrs.  Ford.  I  your  lady,  Sir  John  !  alas,  I  should 
be  a  pitiful  lady. 

Fal.  Let  the  court  of  France  show  me  such 
another  !  I  see  how  thine  eye  would  emulate  the 
diamond  :  Thou  hast  the  right  arched  beauty  of 
the  brow,  that  becomes  the  ship-tire,  the  tire-valiant, 
or  any  tire  of  Venetian  admittance.8 

Mrs.  Ford.  A  plain  kerchief,  Sir  John  :  my  brows 
become  nothing  else  ;  nor  that  well  neither. 

Fal.  Thou  art  a  tyrant  to  say  so  :  thou  wouldst 
make  an  absolute  courtier ;  and  the  firm  fixture  of 
thy  foot  would  give  an  excellent  motion  to  thy  gait, 
in  a  semicircled  farthingale.  I  see  what  thou  wert, 
if  Fortune  thy  foe  were  not,  Nature  thy  friend  :  7 
Come,  thou  canst  not  hide  it. 

Mrs.  Ford.  Believe  me,  there's  no  such  thing 
in  me. 

Fal.  What  made  me  love  thee  1  let  that  persuade 
thee,  there's  something  extraordinary  in  thee.  Come, 
I  cannot  cog,  and  say  thou  art  this  and  that,  like  a 
many  of  these  lisping  hawthorn-buds,  that  come  like 
women  in  men's  apparel,  and  smell  like  Bucklers- 
bury  in  simple-time ; 8  I  cannot :  but  I  love  thee, 
none  but  thee  ;  and  thou  deservest  it. 

6  That  is,  any  fanciful  head-dress  worn  by  the  celebrated  beau- 
ties of  Venice,  or  approved  by  them.     In  how  much  request  the 
Venetian  tire  or  head-dress  was  formerly  held,  appears  from  Bur- 
ton's Anatomy  of  Melancholy,  1624  :    "  Let  her  have  the  Spanish 
gait,   the    Venetian  tire,   Italian  compliments  and  endowments." 
The  ship-tire  was  probably  a  flaunting  head-dress,  with  ribands 
flying  like  streamers. 

7  That  is,   "  if  Fortune  were  not  thy  foe,  Nature  being  thy 
friend."     Fortune    my  foe  was   the  beginning  of  a  popular  old 
ballad,  wherein  were  sung  the  evils  that  fall   upon  men  through 
the  caprice  of  Fortune.  H. 

8  Simples,  that    is,  herbs,  were  sold   at  the  many   apotueearj 


27S  MERRY    WIVES  ACT  III 

Mrs.  Ford.  Do  not  betray  me,  sir :  I  fear  you 
love  mistress  Page. 

Fed.  Thou  mightst  as  well  say,  I  love  to  walk 
by  the  Counter-gate ; 9  which  is  as  hateful  to  me  as 
the  reek  of  a  lime-kiln. 

Mrs.  Ford.  Well,  heaven  knows  how  I  love  yon ; 
and  you  shall  one  day  find  it. 

Fal.  Keep  that  in  mind  ;  I'll  deserve  it. 

Mrs.  Ford.  Nay,  I  must  tell  you,  so  you  do ;  01 
else  I  could  not  be  in  that  mind. 

Rob.  [Within.]  Mistress  Ford  !  mistress  Ford  ! 
here's  mistress  Page  at  the  door,  sweating,  and 
blowing,  and  looking  wildly,  and  would  needs  speak 
with  you  presently. 

Fal.  She  shall  not  see  me  :  I  will  ensconce  me 
behind  the  arras.10 

Mrs.  Ford.  Pray  you,  do  so  :  she's  a  very  tattling 
woman.  —  [FALSTAFF  hides  himself. 

Enter  Mrs.  PAGE  and  ROBIN. 

What's  the  matter  1  how  now  1 

Mrs.  Page.  O  mistress  Ford !  what  have  you 
done  ?  You're  sham'd,  you're  overthrown,  you're 
undone  for  ever. 

Mrs.  Ford.  What's  the  matter,  good  mistress 
Page  ] 

shops  in  Bucklersbury  ;  thus  in  simple-time  filling'  the  air  with  the 
fragrance  of  rosemary  and  lavender.  H. 

8  The  name  of  this  prison  was  a  frequent  subject  of  jocularity 
with  our  ancestors.  Thus  Baret  in  his  Alvearie,  1573 :  "  We 
saie  merrily  of  him  who  hath  been  in  the  Counter  or  such  like 
plices  of  prison  :  He  can  sing-  his  counter-tenor  very  well.  And 
in  anger  we  say :  I  will  make  you  sing  a  counter-tenor  for  this 
geare  ;  meaning1  imprisonment." 

10  The  spaces  left  between  the  walls  and  wooden  frames  on 
which  (he  tapestry  was  hung,  were  not  more  commodious  to  out 
ancestors,  than  to  the  authors  of  Jincient  dramatic  pieces. 


*C.   III.  OF    WINDSOR.  279 

Mrs.  Page.  O  well-a-day,  mistress  Ford  !  having 
an  honest  man  to  your  husband,  to  give  him  such 
cause  ot  suspicion  ! 

J/r.s.  Ford.  What  cause  of  suspicion  ? 

Mrs.  Page.  What  cause  of  suspicion  1  —  Out  upon 
you  !  how  am  I  mistook  in  you  ! 

Mrs.  Ford.  Why,  alas  !  what's  the  matter  ? 

Mrs.  Page.  Your  husband's  coming  hither,  wo- 
man, with  all  the  officers  in  Windsor,  to  search  for 
a  gentleman,  that,  he  says,  is  here  now  in  the  house, 
by  your  consent,  to  take  an  ill  advantage  of  his  ab- 
sence :  You  are  undone. 

Mrs.  Ford.  'Tis  not  so,  I  hope. 

Mrs.  Page.  Pray  heaven  it  be  not  so,  that  you 
have  such  a  man  here  ;  but  'tis  most  certain  your 
husband's  coming  with  half  Windsor  at  his  heels,  to 
search  for  such  a  one  :  I  come  before  to  tell  you. 
If  you  know  yourself  clear,  why,  I  am  glad  of  it ; 
but  if  you  have  a  friend  here,  convey,  convey  him 
out.  Be  not  amaz'd ;  call  all  your  senses  to  you  : 
defend  your  reputation,  or  bid  farewell  to  your  good 
life  for  ever. 

Mrs.  Ford.  What  shall  I  do  ?  —  There  is  a  gen- 
tleman, my  dear  friend  ;  and  I  fear  not  mine  own 
shame  so  much  as  his  peril :  I  had  rather  than  a 
thousand  pound  he  were  out  of  the  house. 

Mrs.  Page.  For  shame  !  never  stand,  "  you  had 
rather,"  and  "  you  had  rather : "  your  husband's 
here  at  hand  ;  bethink  you  of  some  conveyance  :  in 
the  house  you  cannot  hide  him. —  O,  how  have  you 
deceiv'd  me  !  —  Look,  here  is  a  basket :  if  he  be 
of  any  reasonable  stature,  he  may  creep  in  here ; 
and  throw  foul  linen  upon  him,  as  if  it  were  going 
to  bucking :  Or,  it  is  whiting-time,11  send  him  by 
your  two  men  to  Datchet  mead. 

11  Bleaching-  time. 


280  MERRY    WIVES  A«;T   III 

Mrs.  Ford  He's  too  big  to  go  in  there  :  What 
shall  I  do  ? 

Re-enter  FALSTAFF. 

Pal.  Let  me  see't;  let  me  see't !  O,  let  me  see't ! 
I'll  in,  I'll  in  :  —  follow  your  friend's  counsel  :  — 
I'll  in. 

Mrs.  Page.  What!  Sir  John  Falstaff!  Are  these 
four  letters,  knight? 

Fat.  I  love  thee :  help  me  away :  let  me  creep 
in  here  ;  I'll  never  — 

[He  goes  into  the  basket ;  they  cover  him  with 
foul  linen. 

Mrs.  Page.  Help  to  cover  your  master,  boy  : 
Call  your  men,  mistress  Ford.  —  You  dissembling 
knight ! 

Mrs.  Ford.  What,  John  !  Robert !  John  !  [Exit 
ROBIN  :  Re-enter  Servants.]  Go,  take  up  these  clothes 
here,  quickly;  where's  the  cowl-staff?  li  look,  how 
you  drumble : 13  carry  them  to  the  laundress  in 
Datchet  mead ;  quickly,  come. 

Enter  FORD,  PAGE,  CAIUS,  and  Sir  HUGH  EVANS. 

Ford.  Pray  you,  come  near :  if  I  suspect  with- 
out cause,  why,  then  make  sport  at  me,  then  let  me 

12  A  staff  used  for  carrying  a  cowl  or  tub  with  two  handles  to 
fetch  water  in.     "  Bicollo,  a  cowle-staffe  to  carie  behind  and  before 
with,  as  they  use  in  Italy  to  carie  two  buckets  at  once."  —  Florio'i 
Dictionary,  1598. 

13  To  drumble  and  drone  meant  to  more  sluggishly.     To  drum- 
ble,  ir  Devonshire,  means  to  mutter  in  a  sullen  and   inarticulate 
voice.     A  drumble  drone,  in  the  western  dialect,  signifies  a  drone 
or  humble-bee.     That  master  genius  of  modern  times,  who  knows 
no  skilfully  how  to  adapt  his  language  to  the  characters  and  man- 
ners of  the  age  in  which  his  fable  is  laid,  has  adopted  this  word 
in    The    Fortunes    of   Nigel,   vol.   ii.  p.  21)8 :     "  Why    how    she 
drumbles  ! —  I  warrant  she  stops  to  take  a  sip  on  the  road." 


SC.   III.  OF    WINDSOR.  !£8l 

be  your  jest ;    I  deserve  it.  —  How  now  '  whithei 
bear  you  this  1 

JServ.  To  the  laundress,  forsooth. 

Mrs.  Ford.  Why,  what  have  you  to  do  whither 
they  bear  it  1  You  were  best  meddle  with  buck 
washing. 

Ford.  Buck  i  I  would  I  could  wash  myself  of  the 
buck !  Buck,  back,  buck  1  Ay,  buck  ;  I  warrant 
you,  buck ;  and  of  the  season  too,  it  shall  appear. 
[Exeunt  Servants  tcith  the  basket.]  Gentlemen,  I 
have  dream'd  to-night ;  I'll  tell  you  my  dream. 
Here,  here,  here  be  my  keys  :  ascend  my  chambers, 
search,  seek,  find  out :  I'll  warrant  we'll  unkennel 
the  fox  :  —  Let  me  stop  this  way  first :  —  So,  now 
uncape.14 

Page.  Good  master  Ford,  be  contented :  you 
»vrong  yourself  too  much. 

Ford.  True,  master  Page.  —  Up,  gentlemen  ; 
you  shall  see  sport  anon  :  follow  me,  gentlemen. 

[Exit. 

Eva.  This  is  fery  fantastical  humours,  and  jeal- 
ousies. 

Caius.  By  gar,  'tis  no  de  fashion  of  France  :  it  is 
not  jealous  in  France. 

Page.  Nay,  follow  him,  gentlemen  :  see  the  issue 
of  his  search.  [Exeunt  EVANS,  PAGE,  and  CAIUS. 

Mrs.  Page.  Is  there  not  a  double  excellency  in 
this  ? 

Mrs.  Ford.  I  know  not  which  pleases  me  better, 
that  my  husband  is  deceived,  or  Sir  John. 

Mrs.  Page.  What  a  taking  was  he  in,  when  your 
husband  ask'd  what IS  was  in  the  basket ! 

14  To  uncape  a  fox  seems,  in  the  old  language  of  the  chase,  to 
have  meant,  to  unearth  a  fox.  H. 

15  The  old  copies  read,  "  who  was  in  the  basket  7  "  which  ii 
clearly  a  mistake,  as  Ford  evidently  did  not  suspect  a  person  U 


282  MERRY    WIVES  ACT  III 

Mrs.  Ford.  I  am  half  afraid  he  will  have  in-ed  of 
washing ;  so,  throwing  him  into  the  water  will  do 
him  a  benefit. 

Mrs.  Page.  Hang  him,  dishonest  rascal !  I  would 
all  of  the  same  strain  were  in  the  same  distress. 

Mrs.  Ford.  I  think  my  husband  hath  some  special 
suspicion  of  Falstaff's  being  here  ;  for  I  never  saw 
liim  so  gross  in  his  jealousy  till  now. 

Mrs.  Page.  I  will  lay  a  plot  to  try  that :  And  we 
will  yet  have  more  tricks  with  Falstaff:  his  disso- 
lute disease  will  scarce  obey  this  medicine. 

Mrs.  Ford.  Shall  we  send  that  foolish  carrion, 
mistress  Quickly,  to  him,  and  excuse  his  throwing 
into  the  water  ;  and  give  him  another  hope,  to  be- 
tray him  to  another  punishment  ? 

Mrs.  Page.  We'll  do  it :  let  him  be  sent  for  to- 
morrow eight  o'clock,  to  have  amends. 

Re-enter  FORD,  PAGE,  CAIUS,  and  Sir  HUGH  EVANS. 

Ford.    I   cannot  find   him :  may  be   the  knave 
bragg'd  of  that  he  could  not  compass. 
Mrs.  Page.  Heard  you  that  1 
Mrs.  Ford.    You  use  me  well,  master  Ford,  do 


you 


Ford.  Ay,  I  do  so. 

Mrs.  Ford.  Heaven  make  you  better  than  your 
thoughts  ! 

Ford.  Amen. 

Mrs.  Page.  You  do  yourself  mighty  wrong,  mas- 
ter Ford. 

Ford.  Ay,  ay ;  I  must  bear  it. 

be  there.  In  tho  account  Falstaff  gives  Brook  of  his  buck-basket 
experiences  he  says  :  "  The  jealous  knave  ask'd  them  once  or 
twice  what  was  in  the  basket."  As  no  such  question  occurs  in  this 
scene,  we  must  suppose  that  Ford  said  some  things  which  the 
poet  did  not  see  fit  to  report.  H 


HC    ill.  OF    WINDSOR.  2H3 

Eva.  If  there  be  any  pody  in  the  house,  and  in 
the  chambers,  and  in  the  coffers,  and  in  the  presses, 
heaven  forgive  my  sins  at  the  day  of  judgment ! 

Caius.  Be  gar,  nor  I  too :  dere  is  no  bodies. 

Page.  Fie,  fie,  master  Ford  !  are  you  not  asham'd  ? 
What  spirit,  what  devil  suggests  this  imagination  1 
I  would  not  have  your  distemper  in  this  kind  for  the 
wealth  of  Windsor  Castle. 

Ford.  'Tis  my  fault,  master  :Page :  I  suffer 
for  it. 

Eva.  You  suffer  for  a  pad  conscience  :  your  wife 
is  as  honest  a  'omans  as  I  will  desires  among  five 
thousand,  and  five  hundred  too. 

Caius.  By  gar,  I  see  'tis  an  honest  woman. 

Ford.  Well ;  —  I  promis'd  you  a  dinner :  —  Come, 
come,  walk  in  the  park  :  I  pray  you,  pardon  me ;  I 
will  hereafter  make  known  to  you  why  I  have  done 
tliis.  —  Come,  wife  ;  —  Come,  mistress  Page :  I  pray 
you  pardon  me ;  pray  heartily,  pardon  me. 

Page.  Let's  go  in,  gentlemen;  but,  trust  me, 
we'll  mock  him.  I  do  invite  you  to-morrow  morn- 
ing to  my  house  to  breakfast ;  after,  we'll  a  birding 
together :  I  have  a  fine  hawk  for  the  bush  :  Shall 
it  be  so  ? 

Ford.  Any  tiling. 

Eva.  If  there  is  one,  I  shall  make  two  in  the 
company. 

Caius.  If  there  be  one  or  two,  I  shall  make-a  de 
turd. 

Ford.  Pray  you  go,  master  Page. 

Eva.  I  pray  you  now,  remembrance  to-morrow 
on  the  lousy  knave,  mine  Host. 

Caius.  Dat  is  good ;  by  gar,  vit  all  my  heart. 

Eva.  A  lousy  knave  !  to  have  his  gibes,  and  his 
rnockei  ies.  [Exeunt. 


284  MJ&RRY    WIVES  ACT  III 

SCENE  IV.     A  Room  in  PAGE'S  House. 
Enter  FENTON  and  ANNE  PAGE. 

Pent.  I  see  I  cannot  get  thy  father's  love ; 
Therefore,  no  more  turn  me  to  him,  sweet  Nan. 

Anne.  Alas  !  how  then  1 

Pent.  Why,  thou  must  be  thyself 

He  doth  object,  I  am  too  great  of  birth  ; 
And  that,  my  state  being  gall'd  with  my  expense, 
I  seek  to  heal  it  only  by  his  wealth  : 
Besides  these,  other  bars  he  lays  before  me,- 
My  riots  past,  my  wild  societies ; 
And  tells  me,  'tis  a  thing  impossible 
I  should  love  thee,  but  as  a  property. 

Anne.  May  be,  he  tells  you  true. 

Fent.  No,  heaven  so  speed  me  in  my  time  to 

come  ! 

Albeit,  I  will  confess  thy  father's  wealth ' 
Was  the  first  motive  that  I  woo'd  thee,  Anne ; 
Yet,  wooing  thee,  I  found  thee  of  more  value 
Than  stamps  in  gold,  or  sums  in  sealed  bags ; 
And  'tis  the  very  riches  of  thyself 
That  now  I  ami  at. 

Anne.  Gentle  master  Fenton, 

Yet  seek  my  father's  love ;  still  seek  it,  sir : 


1  Some  light  may  be  given  to  those  who  shall  endeavour  to  cal 
culate  the  increase  of  English  wealth,  by  observing  that  Latimer, 
in  the  time  of  Edward  VI.  mentions  it  as  a  proof  of  his  father's 
prosperity,  "  that  though  but  a  yeoman,  he  gave  his  daughters  five 
pounds  each  for  their  portion."  At  the  latter  end  of  Elizabeth, 
seven  hundred  pounds  were  such  a  temptation  to  courtship,  as 
made  all  other  motives  suspected.  Congreve  makes  twelve  thou- 
sand pounds  more  than  a  counterbalance  to  the  affection  of  Be- 
linda. No  poet  will  now  fly  his  favourite  character  at  less  than 
fifty  thousand. 


SC.  IV.  OF    WINDSOK.  285 

If  opportunity  and  humblest  suit 

Cannot  attain  it,  why  then,  —  Hark  you  hither. 

\T1iey  converse  apart. 

Enter  SHALLOW,  SLENDER,  and  Mrs.  QUICKLY. 

Shal.  Break  their  talk,  mistress  Quickly ;  my 
kinsman  shall  speak  for  himself. 

Slen.  I'll  make  a  shaft  or  a  bolt  on't : 2  Slid  !  *ti» 
but  venturing. 

Shal.  Be  not  dismay'd. 

Slen.  No,  she  shall  not  dismay  me :  I  care  not 
for  that,  —  but  that  I  am  afeard. 

Quick.  Hark  ye  ;  master  Slender  would  speak  a 
word  with  you. 

Anne.  I  come  to  him. — This  is  my  father's  choice. 
[Aside.]  O,  what  a  world  of  vile  ill-favour'd  faults 
Looks  handsome  in  three  hundred  pounds  a  year ! 

Quick.  And  how  does  good  master  Fenton  ?  Pray 
you,  a  word  with  you. 

ShaL  She's  coming  ;  to  her,  coz.  O  boy  !  thou 
hadst  a  father. 

Slen.  I  had'  a  father,  mistress  Anne  ;  —  my  uncle 
can  tell  you  good  jests  of  him.  —  Pray  you,  uncle, 
tell  mistress  Anne  the  jest,  how  my  father  stole  two 
geese  out  of  a  pen,  good  uncle. 

Shal.  Mistress  Anne,  my  cousin  loves  you, 

Slen.  Ay,  that  I  do ;  as  well  as  I  love  any  wo- 
man in  Gloucestershire. 

ShaL    He  will  maintain  you  like  a  gentlewoman. 

Slen.  Ay,  that  I  will,  come  cut  and  long-tail,1 
under  the  degree  of  a  'squire. 

9  A  shaft  was  a  long  arrow,  and  a  bolt  a  thick  short  one.  The 
proverb  probably  means,  "  I'll  make  something  or  other  of  it.  — I 
will  do  it  by  some  means  or  other." 

8  The  sense  is  obviously,  "  Come  who  will   to  contend  witk 


286  MERRY    WIVES  ACT  III. 

Shal.  He  will  make  you  a  hundred  and  fifty 
pounds  jointure. 

Anne.  Good  master  Shallow,  let  him  woo  for 
himself. 

Shal.  Marry,  I  thank  you  for  it ;  I  thank  you  for 
that  good  comfort.  She  calls  you,  coz :  I'll  leave 
you. 

Anne.  Now,  master  Slender. 

Slen.  Now,  good  mistress  Anne. 

Anne.  What  is  your  will  ? 

Slen.  My  will  ?  od's  heartlings !  that's  a  pretty 
jest,  indeed  :  I  ne'er  made  my  will  yet,  I  thank 
heaven  ;  I  am  not  such  a  sickly  creature,  I  give 
heaven  praise. 

Anne.  I  mean,  master  Slender,  what  would  you 
with  me  ? 

Slen.  Truly,  for  mine  own  part,  I  would  little  01 
nothing  with  you  :  Your  father,  and  my  uncle,  have 
made  motions :  if  it  be  my  luck,  so ;  if  not,  happy 
man  be  his  dole  !  *  They  can  tell  you  how  things  go, 
better  than  I  can  :  You  may  ask  your  father ;  here 
he  comes. 

Enter  PAGE  and  Mrs.  PAGE. 

Page.  Now,  master  Slender !  —  Love  him,  daugh- 
ter Anne.  — 
Why,  how  now !  what  does  master  Fenton  here  ? 

me,  under  the  degree  of  a  squire."  Cut  and  long-tail  means  al. 
kinds  of  curtail  dogs,  and  sporting  dogs,  and  all  others.  It  is  a 
phrase  of  frequent  occurrence  in  writers  of  the  period  ;  every  kind 
of  dog  being  comprehended  under  cut  and  long-tail,  every  rank  of 
people  in  the  expression  when  metaphorically  used. 

4  This  is  a  proverbial  expression  of  frequent  occurrence.  The 
apparent  signification  here  is  :  "  Happiness  be  his  portion  who 
succeeds  best,"  but  the  general  meaning  of  the  phrase  may  be  in- 
terpreted :  "  Let  his  portion  or  lot  be  happy  man."  Dole  is  the 
past  participle  and  past  tense  of  the  Anglo-Saxon  verb  Dmlan.  la 
deal,  to  divide,  to  distribute. 


»c.  iv.  or  WINDSOR.  287 

You  wrong  me,  sir,  thus  still  to  haunt  my  house  • 
I  told  you,  sir,  my  daughter  is  dispos'd  of. 
Fenl.  Nay,  master  Page,  be  not  impatient. 
Mrs.  Page.  Good  master  Fenton,  come  not  to  my 

child. 

Page.  She  is  no  match  for  you. 
Pent.  Sir,  will  you  hear  me  7 
Page.  No,  good  master  Fenton 

Come,  master  Shallow  ;  come,  son  Slender ;  in :  — 
Knowing  my  mind,  you  wrong  me,  master  Fenton 
[Exeunt  PAGE,  SHAL.,  and  SLEN. 
Quick.  Speak  to  mistress  Page. 
Pent.   Good  mistress  Page,  for  that  I  love  your 

daughter 

In  such  a  righteous  fashion  as  I  do, 
Perforce,  against  all  checks,  rebukes,  and  manners, 
I  must  advance  the  colours  of  my  love, 
And  not  retire :  Let  me  have  your  good  will. 

Anne.    Good  mother,  do  not  marry  me  to  yond' 

fool. 
Mrs.  Page.  I  mean  it  not :    I  seek  you  a  better 

husband. 

Quick.  That's  my  master,  master  doctor. 
A'ine.  Alas,  I  had  rather  be  set  quick  i'  the  earth, 
Atid  bowl'd  to  death  with  turnips.* 

Mrs.  Page.    Come,  trouble  not  yourself:    Good 

master  Fenton, 

I  will  not  be  your  friend,  nor  enemy. 
My  daughter  will  I  question  how  she  loves  you, 
And  as  I  find  her,  so  am  I  affected ; 
Till  then,  farewell,  sir  :  —  She  must  needs  go  in  ; 
Her  father  will  be  angry. 

[Exeunt  Mrs.  PAGE  and  ANNE. 

5  Thus  in  Jonson's  Bartholomew  Fair:  "  Would  I  had  been  set 
in  the  ground,  all  but  the  head  of  me,  and  had  my  brains  bowl'd 
at." 


288  MERRY     WIVES  ACT   III 

Fent.    Farewell,  gentle  mistress ;  farewell,  Nan. 

Quick.  Tliis  is  my  doing,  now  :  —  Nay,  said  I, 
will  you  cast  away  your  child  on  a  fool,  and  a 
physician  ?  look  on  master  Fenton.  —  This  is  my 
doing. 

Fent.    I  thank  thee  ;  and  I  pray  thee,  once  8  to- 
night 

Give  my  sweet  Nan  this  ring :    There's  for  thy  pains. 

[Exit. 

Quick.  Now  heaven  send  thee  good  fortune  !  A 
kind  heart  he  hath:  a  woman  would  run  through  fire 
and  water  for  such  a  kind  heart.  But  yet  I  would 
my  master  had  mistress  Anne  ;  or  I  would  master 
Slender  had  her  ;  or,  in  sooth,  I  would  master  Fen- 
ton  had  her  :  I  will  do  what  I  can  for  them  all  three  ; 
*br  so  I  have  promis'd,  and  I'll  be  as  good  as  my 
word  ;  but  speciously  for  master  Fenton.  Well, 
I  must  of  another  errand  to  Sir  John  Falstaff  from 
my  two  mistresses:  What  a  beast  am  I  to  slack  it ! 

[Exit 

SCENE   V.     A  Room  in  the  Garter  Inn. 

Enter  FALSTAFF  and  BARDOLPH. 

Fal.  Bardolph,  I  say ! 

Bard.  Here,  sir. 

Fal.  Go  fetch  me  a  quart  of  sack ;  put  a  toast 
in't.  [Exit  BARD.]  Have  I  liv'd  to  be  carried  in  a 
basket,  like  a  barrow  of  butcher's  offal ;  and  to  be 
thrown  into  the  Thames  1  Well ;  if  I  be  serv'd  such 
another  trick,  I'll  have  my  brains  ta'en  out,  and 
butter'd,  and  give  them  to  a  dog  for  a  new  year's 
gift.  The  rogues  slighted  me  into  the  river  with  as 
u'ttle  remorse  as  they  would  have  drown'd  a  blind 

•  That  is,  sjmetime  to-night 


SO.  V.  OF    WINDSOR.  289 

bitch's  puppies,1  fifteen  i'  the  litter :  and  you  may 
know  by  my  size,  that  I  have  a  kind  of  alacrity  in 
sinking ;  if  the  bottom  were  as  deep  as  hell,  I  should 
down.  I  had  been  drown'd,  but  that  the  shore  was 
shelvy  and  shallow,  —  a  death  that  I  abhor  ;  for  the 
water  swells  a  man  ;  and  what  a  thing  should  I  have 
been,  when  I  had  been  swell'd!  I  should  have  been 
a  mountain  of  mummy. 

Re-enter  BARDOLPH,  with  the  wine. 

Bard.  Here's  mistress  Quickly,  sir,  to  speaK 
with  you. 

Fal.  Come,  let  me  pour  in  some  sack  to  the 
Thames  water  ;  for  my  belly's  as  cold,  as  if  I  had 
swallow'd  snow-balls  for  pills  to  cool  the  reins 
Call  her  in. 

Bard.  Come  in,  woman. 

Enter  Mrs.  QUICKLI. 

Quick.  By  your  leave.  I  cry  you  mercy :  give 
your  worship  good-morrow. 

Fal.  Take  away  these  chalices : 2  Go  brew  me  a 
posset  of  sack  finely. 

Bar.  With  eggs,  sir  ? 

Fal.  Simple  of  itself ;  I'll  no  pullet-sperm  in  my 
brewage.  —  [Exit  BARDOLPH.]  —  How  now  1 

Quick.  Marry,  sir,  I  come  to  your  worship  from 
mistress  Ford. 

FaL  Mistress  Ford!    I  have  had  ford  enough:  I 

1  So  in  all  the  old  copies,  meaning,  of  course,  a  bitch's  blind 
puppies.  FalstafF  was  not  in  a  state  of  mind  to  stand  upon  the 
niceties  of  grammar,  and  so  he  left  his  errors  to  be  corrected  by 
modern  editors  ;  who,  accordingly,  have  given  what  be  meant, 
not  what  he  said.  s 

*  Cups. 


290  MERRY    WIVES  ACT   111 

was  thrown  into  the  ford ;  I  have  my  belly  fully  of 
ford. 

Quick.  Alas  the  day !  good  heart,  that  was  nof 
her  fault :  she  does  so  take  on  with  her  men ;  they 
mistook  their  erection. 

Fal.  So  did  I  mine,  to  build  upon  a  foolish  wo- 
man's promise. 

Quick.  Well,  she  laments,  sir,  for  it,  that  it  would 
yearn  your  heart  to  see  it.  Her  husband  goes  tliis 
morning  a-birding :  she  desires  you  once  more  to 
come  to  her  between  eight  and  nine.  I  must  carry 
her  word  quickly :  she'll  make  you  amends,  I  war- 
rant you. 

Fal.  Well,  I  will  visit  her :  tell  her  so  ;  and  bid 
her  think  what  a  man  is  :  let  her  consider  his  frailty, 
and  then  judge  of  my  merit. 

Quick.  I  will  tell  her. 

Fal.  Do  so.    Between  nine  and  ten  say'st  thou  ? 

Quick.  Eight  and  nine,  sir. 

Fal.  Well,  be  gone  :   I  will  not  miss  her. 

Quick.  Peace  be  with  you,  sir  1  [Exit. 

FaL  I  marvel  I  hear  not  of  master  Brook :  he 
aent  me  word  to  stay  within:  I  like  his  money  well. 
O  !  here  be  comes. 

Enter  FORD. 

Ford.  Bless  you,  sir.  . 

Fal.  Now,  master  Brook  !  you  come  to  know 
what  hath  pass'd  between  me  and  Ford's  wife  ? 

Ford.  That,  indeed,  Sir  John,  is  my  business. 

Fal.  Master  Brook,  I  will  not  he  to  you :  I  waa 
at  her  house  the  hour  she  appointed  me. 

Ford.  And  how  sped  you,  sir  ? 

Fal.  Very  ill-favou redly,  master  Brook. 

Ford.  How  so,  sir  1     Did  she  change  her  deter 

initiation  1 


SU.  V  OF    WINDSOR.  291 

Fal.  No,  master  Brook ;  but  the  peaking  cornuto, 
her  husband,  master  Brook,  dwelling  in  a  continua 
'larum  of  jealousy,  comes  me  in  the  instant  of  our 
encounter,  after  we  had  embrac'd,  kiss'd,  protested, 
and,  as  it  were,  spoke  the  prologue  of  our  comedy ; 
and  at  his  heels  a  rabble  of  bis  companions,  thither 
provoked  and  instigated  by  his  distemper,  and,  for- 
sooth, to  search  his  house  for  bis  wife's  love. 

Ford.  What,  while  you  were  there  1 

Fal.  While  I  was  there. 

Ford.  And  did  he  search  for  you,  and  could  not 
find  you  ? 

Fal.  You  shall  hear.  As  good  luck  would  have 
it,  comes  in  one  mistress  Page ;  gives  intelligence 
of  Ford's  approach ;  and,  by  her  invention,  and 
Ford's  wife's  distraction,3  they  convey'd  me  into  a 
buck-basket. 

Ford.  A  buck-basket? 

Fal.  By  the  Lord,  a  buck-basket !  ramm'd  me 
in  with  foul  shirts  and  smocks,  socks,  foul  stockings, 
and  greasy  napkins ;  that,  master  Brook,  there  was 
the  rankest  compound  of  villanous  smell,  that  ever 
offended  nostril. 

Ford.  And  how  long  lay  you  there  1 

Fal.  Nay,  you  shall  hear,  master  Brook,  what  1 
have  suffer'd  to  bring  this  woman  to  evil  for  your 
good.  Being  thus  cramm'd  in  the  basket,  a  couple 
of  Ford's  knaves,  his  hinds,  were  call'd  forth  by 
their  mistress,  to  carry  me  in  the  name  of  foul  clothes 
to  Datchet-lane  :  they  took  me  on  their  shoulders  ; 
met  the  jealous  knave  their  master  in  the  door,  who 
ask'd  them  once  or  twice  what  they  had  in  their 
basket :  I  quak'd  for  fear,  lest  the  lunatic  knave 

3  M.  Mason  proposes  to  read  direction,  hut  perhaps  the  change 

a  not  necessary- 


292  MERRY    WIVES  ACT   H  L 

would  have  search'd  it ;  but  Fate,  oruaining  he 
should  be  a  cuckold,  held  his  hand.  Well;  *.«u 
went  he  for  a  search,  and  away  went  I  for  foul 
clothes.  But  mark  the  sequel,  master  Brook  :  3 
suffered  the  pangs  of  three  several  deaths  :  first,  an 
intolerable  fright,  to  be  detected  with*  a  jealous 
rotten  bellwether :  next,  to  be  compass'd  like  a 
good  bilbo  °  in  the  circumference  of  a  peck,  hilt  to 
point,  heel  to  head  :  and  then,  to  be  stopp'd  in, 
like  a  strong  distillation,  with  stinking  clothes  that 
fretted  in  their  own  grease  :  Think  of  that,  —  a  man 
of  my  kidney,  —  tliink  of  that ;  that  am  as  subject  to 
heat  as  butter  ;  a  man  of  continual  dissolution  and 
thaw :  it  was  a  miracle  to  'scape  suffocation.  And 
in  the  height  of  this  bath,  when  I  was  more  than 
half  stew'd  in  grease,  like  a  Dutch  dish,  to  be 
thrown  into  the  Thames,  and  cool'd,  glowing  hot, 
in  that  surge,  like  a  horse-shoe ;  think  of  that,  — 
hissing  hot,  —  think  of  that,  master  Brook  ! 

Ford.  In  good  sadness,  sir,  I  am  sorry  that  foi 
my  sake  you  have  suffer'd  all  this.  My  suit  then  is 
desperate  :  you'll  undertake  her  no  more. 

Fal.  Master  Brook,  I  will  be  thrown  into  jEtna, 
as  I  have  been  into  Thames,  ere  I  will  leave  her 
thus.  Her  husband  is  this  morning  gone  a-bird- 
ing :  I  have  received  from  her  another  embassy  of 

*  With,  by,  and  of,  were  used  indiscriminately  with  much 
license  by  our  ancestors.  Thus  in  a  subsequent  passage  of  this 
plaj  we  have :  "  I  sooner  would  suspect  the  sun  with  coid." 
Detected  appears  to  have  been  used  in  the  sense  of  suspected, 
impeached.  Cavendish,  in  his  Visions,  has  this  very  phrase : 
"  What  is  he  of  our  bloode  that  wold  not  be  sory  to  heare  our 
names  with  vile  fame  so  detected."  Detected  must  have  the  same 
meaning  here,  for  Falstaff  was  not  discovered,  but  suspected  by  the 
jealous  Ford.  Some  modem  editors  have  unwarrantably  substi- 
tuted by  for  with. 

'  A.  Bilbo  is  a  Spanish  blade  remarkable  for  its  temper  and 
flexibility.  The  best  were  made  at  Bilboa,  a  town  in  Biscay. 


SC.  V.  OF    WINDSOR.  293 

meeting ;  'twixt  <;ight  and  nine  is  the  hour,  mastei 
Brook. 

Ford.  'Tis  past  eight  already,  sir. 

Fal.  Is  it  ?  I  will  then  address  '  me  to  my  ap- 
pointment. Come  to  me  at  your  convenient  leisure, 
and  you  shall  know  how  I  speed ;  and  the  conclu- 
sion shall  be  crowned  with  your  enjoying  her :  Adieu. 
You  shall  have  her,  master  Brook ;  master  Brook, 
you  shall  cuckold  Ford.  [Exit. 

Ford.  Hum :  ha !  is  this  a  vision  ?  is  this  a 
dream  ?  do  I  sleep  ?  Master  Ford,  awake  !  awake, 
master  Ford  !  there's  a  hole  made  in  your  best  coat, 
master  Ford.  This  'tis  to  be  married  !  this  'tis  to 
have  linen,  and  buck-baskets !  —  Well,  I  will  pro- 
claim myself  what  I  am  :  I  will  now  take  the  lecher ; 
he  is  at  my  house  :  he  cannot  'scape  me  ;  'tis  impos- 
sible he  should ;  he  cannot  creep  into  a  halfpenny 
purse,  nor  into  a  pepper-box:  but,  lest  the  devil 
that  guides  him  should  aid  him,  I  will  search  im- 
possible places.  Though  what  I  am  I  cannot  avoid, 
yet  to  be  what  I  would  not,  shall  not  make  me 
tame  :  if  I  have  horns  to  make  me  mad,  let  the  prov- 
erb go  with  me  ;  I'll  be  horn  mad.  [Exit. 


ACT    IV. 

SCENE    I.     The  Street. 
Enter  Mrs.  PAGE,  Mrs.  QUICKLY,  and  WILLIAM. 

Mrs.  Page.  Is  he  at  master  Ford's  already,  think'st 
thou? 

Quick.    Sure,  he  is  by  this,  or  will  be  presently 

•  Make  myself  ready 


294  MERRY    WIVES  ACT  IV 

hut  truly,  he  is  very  courageous  '  mad,  about  his 
throwing  into  the  water.  Mistress  Ford  desires  you 
to  come  suddenly. 

Mrs.  Page.  I'll  be  with  her  by  and  by ;  I'll  but 
bring  my  young  man  here  to  school :  Look,  where 
his  master  comes  :  'tis  a  playing-day,  I  see. 

Enter  Sir  HUGH  EVANS. 

liow  now,  Sir  Hugh !  no  school  to-day  ? 

Eva,  No;  master  Slender  is  get  the  boys  leave  t«. 
play. 

Quick.  Blessing  of  his  heart  ! 

Mrs.  Page.  Sir  Hugh,  my  husband  says  my  son 
profits  nothing  in  the  world  at  his  book :  I  pray  you, 
ask  him  some  questions  in  his  accidence. 

Eva.  Come  hither,  William  :  hold  up  your  head ; 
come. 

Mrs.  Page.  Come  on,  sirrah :  hold  up  your  head  ; 
answer  your  master,  be  not  afraid. 

Eva.  William,  how  many  numbers  is  in  nouns  ' 

Will  Two. 

Quick.  Truly,  I  thought  there  had  been  one  num 
ber  more  ;  because  they  say,  od's  nouns  ! 

Eva.  Peace  your  tattlings.  What  is  fair,  Wil- 
liam? 

Will.    Pulcher. 

Quick.  Polecats  !  there  are  fairer  things  than 
polecats,  sure. 

Eva.  You  are  a  very  simplicity  'oman  :  I  praj 
you  peace.  What  is  lapis,  William  ? 

Will.    A  stone. 

Eva.    And  what  is  a  stone,  William  ? 

Will    A  pebble. 

1  Outrageous 


sc.  t  OP  WINDSOR.  295 

Eva.  No,  it  is  lapis :  I  pray  you  remember  iu 
your  prain. 

Will.    Lapis. 

Eva.  That  is  good,  William.  What  is  he,  Wil- 
liam, that  does  lend  articles  ? 

Will.  Articles  are  borrowed  of  the  pronoun  ; 
and  be  thus  declined  :  Sitigulariter,  nominative,  hie, 
fuse,  /toe. 

Eva.  Nominativo,  hig,  hag,  hog  ;  pray  you,  mark  : 
genitivo,  hujus :  Well,  what  is  your  accusative  case  ! 

Will.  Accusative,  hunc. 

Eva.  I  pray  you,  have  your  remembrance,  child 
Accusative,  hung,  hang,  hog. 

Quick.  Hang  hog  is  Latin  for  bacon,  I  warrant 
you. 

Eva.  Leave  your  prabbles,  'oman.  What  is  the 
focative  case,  William  ] 

Will.    O  —  vocative,  O. 

Eva.    Remember,  William  ;  focative  is  caret. 

Quick.    And  that's  a  good  root. 

Eva.    'Oman,  forbear. 

Mrs.  Page.  Peace  ! 

Eva.  What  is  your  genitive  case  plural,  William  1 

Will.  Genitive  case  7 

Eva.  Ay. 

Will.   Genitivo,  —  horum,  harum,  horum. 

Quick.  'Vengeance  of  Jenny's  case !  fie  on  her '. 
— never  name  her,  child,  if  she  be  a  whore. 

Eva.   For  shame,  'oman ! 

Quick.  You  do  ill  to  teach  the  child  such  words : 
he  teaches  him  to  hick  and  to  hack,  which  they'll 
do  fast  enough  of  themselves  ;  and  to  call  horum. - 
fie  upon  you  ! 

Eva.  'Oman,  art  thou  lunatics  1  hast  thou  no  un- 
derstandings for  thy  cases,  and  the  numbers  of  the 


296  MERRY    WIVES  ACT  IV 

genders  ?  Thou  art  as  foolish  Christian  crentures  as 
I  would  desires. 

Mrs.  Page.  Pr'ythee  hold  thy  peace. 

Eva.  Show  me  now,  William,  some  declensions 
of  your  pronouns. 

Will.  Forsooth,  I  have  forgot. 

Eva.  It  is  qui,  qua,  quod;  if  you  forget  your  quics, 
your  qu&s,  and  your  quods,  you  must  be  preeches." 
Go  your  ways,  and  play ;  go. 

Mrs.  Page.  He  is  a  better  scholar  than  I  thought 
he  was. 

Eva.  He  is  a  good  sprag3  memory.  Farewell, 
mistress  Page. 

Mrs.  Page.  Adieu,  good  Sir  Hugh.  [Exit  Sir 
HUGH.]  Get  you  home,  boy.  —  Come,  we  stay  too 
long.  [Exeunt 

SCENE  H.     A  Room  in  FORD'S  House. 

Enter  FALSTAFF  and  Mrs.  FORD. 

FaL  Mistress  Ford,  your  sorrow  hath  eaten  up 
my  sufferance  :  I  see,  you  are  obsequious '  in  your 
love,  and  I  profess  requital  to  a  hair's  breadth ;  not 
only,  mistress  Ford,  in  the  simple  office  of  love,  but 
in  all  the  accoutrement,  complement,  and  ceremony 
of  it.  But  are  you  sure  of  your  husband  now  1 

Mrs.  Ford.  He's  a-birding,  sweet  Sir  John. 

Mrs.  Page.  [  Within.]  What  hoa,  gossip  Ford  ! 
what  hoa! 

Mrs.  Ford.  Step  into  the  chamber,  Sir  John. 

[Exit  FALSTAFF. 

*  Breeched,  that  is,  flogged. 

3  Quick,  alert.     The  word  is  sprack. 

1  So,  in  Hamlet :  "  To  do  obsequious  sorrow."  The  epithel 
obsequious  refers,  in  both  instances,  to  the  seri  iiisncss  with  whick 
ebiequies  are  performed. 


8C.   11  OF    WINDSOR.  297 

Enter  Mrs.  PAGE. 

Mrs.  Page.  How  now,  sweatheart  1  who's  at 
home  besides  yourself? 

Mrs.  Ford.    Why,  none  but  mine  own  people. 

Mrs.  Page.    Indeed  ? 

Mrs.  Ford.  No,  certainly.  —  [Softly.]  Speak 
louder. 

Mrs.  Page.  [Loudly.]  Truly,  I  am  so  glad  you 
have  nobody  here. 

Mrs.  Ford.  Why  ? 

Mrs.  Page.  Why,  woman,  your  husband  is  in  his 
old  lunes  *  again :  he  so  takes  on  yonder  with  my 
husband;  so  rails  against  all  married  mankind;  so 
curses  all  Eve's  daughters,  of  what  complexion 
soever  ;  and  so  buffets  himself  on  the  forehead,  cry- 
ing, "  Peer  out,  peer  out !  "  3  that  any  madness  I 
ever  yet  beheld  seem'd  but  tameness,  civility,  and 
patience,  to  this  his  distemper  he  is  in  now.  I  am 
glad  the  fat  knight  is  not  here. 

Mrs.  Ford.  Why,  does  he  talk  of  him  1 

Mrs.  Page.  Of  none  but  him ;  and  swears  he 
was  carried  out,  the  last  time  he  search'd  for  him, 
in  a  basket :  protests  to  my  husband  he  is  now  here  ; 
and  hath  drawn  liim  and  the  rest  of  their  company 
from  their  sport,  to  make  another  experiment  of  his 
suspicion :  But  I  am  glad  the  knight  is  not  here : 
now  he  shall  see  his  own  foolery. 

Mrs.  Ford.  How  near  is  he,  mistress  Page  ? 

Mrs.  Page.  Hard  by ;  at  street  end :  he  will  be 
here  anon. 

*  That  is,  lunacy,  frenzy. 

8  Shakespeare  refers  to  a  sport  of  children,  who  thus  call  on  a 
snail  to  push  forth  his  horns  : 

"  Peer  out,  peer  out,  peer  out  of  your  hole, 
Or  else  I'll  beat  you  as  black  as  a  coal  " 


298  MERRY    WIVES  ACT  IV 

Mrs  Ford.  I  am  undone  !  —  the  knight  is  here. 

Mrs.  Page.  Why,  then  you  are  utterly  shain'd, 
and  he's  but  a  dead  man.  What  a  woman  are  you  ! 
—  Away  with  him,  away  with  him;  better  shame 
than  murder. 

Mrs.  Ford.  Wliich  way  should  he  go  ?  how 
should  I  bestow  him  1  Shall  I  put  him  into  the 
basket  again  ? 

Re-enter  FALSTAFF. 

Fal.  No,  I'll  come  no  more  i'  the  basket:  May 
I  not  go  out,  ere  he  come  1 

Mrs.  Page.  Alas  !  three  of  master  Ford's  brothers 
watch  the  door  with  pistols,4  that  none  shall  issue 
out ;  otherwise  you  might  slip  away  ere  he  came. 
But  what  make 6  you  here  ? 

Fal.  What  shall  I  do  ]  —  I'll  creep  up  into  the 
chimney. 

Mrs.  Ford.  There  they  always  use  to  discharge 
their  birding-pieces :  Creep  into  the  kiln-hole. 

Fal.  Where  is  it  ? 

Mrs.  Ford.  He  will  seek  there,  on  my  word 
Neither  press,  coffer,  chest,  trunk,  well,  vault,  but 
he  hath  an  abstract a  for  the  remembrance  of  such 
places,  and  goes  to  them  by  his  note :  There  is  no 
biding  you  in  the  house. 

Fal.  I'll  go  out  then. 

Mrs.  Page.  If  you  go  out  in  your  own  semblance, 
you  die,  Sir  John.  Unless  you  go  out  disguis'd,  — 

4  This  is  one  of  Shakespeare's  anchronisms  :  he  has  also  intro- 
duced pistols  in  Pericles,  in  the  reign  of  Antiochus,  two  hundred 
years  before  Christ. 

5  This  phrase   has   been   already  noticed.     It  occurs  again  iii 
As  Vou  Like  It,  in  the  sense  of  do  :  "  Now,  sir,  what  make  you 
here  ?  "     It  also  occurs  in  Hamlet,  Othello,  and  Love's  Labour's 
Lost. 

•  That  is.  a  list    an  'nventory,  or  short  note  ot. 


S.C.   II.  OF    WINDSOR.  299 

Mrs.  F(.rd.  How  might  we  disguise  him  ? 

Mrs.  Page.  Alas  the  day !  I  know  not.  There 
is  no  woman's  gown  big  enough  for  him  ;  otherwise, 
he  might  put  on  a  hat,  a  muffler,  and  a  kerchief, 
and  so  escape. 

Fal.  Good  hearts,  devise  something :  any  ex- 
tremity, rather  than  a  mischief. 

Mrs.  Ford.  My  maid's  aunt,  the  fat  woman  of 
Brentford,  has  a  gown  above. 

Mrs.  Page.  On  my  word,  it  will  serve  him ;  she's 
as  big  as  he  is  :  and  there's  her  thrum'd  hat,7  and 
her  muffler  too :  Run  up,  Sir  John. 

Mrs.  Ford.  Go,  go,  sweet  Sir  John :  mistress 
Page  and  I  will  look  some  linen  for  your  head. 

Mrs.  Page.  Quick,  quick  :  we'll  come  dress  you 
straight :  put  on  the  gown  the  wliile. 

[Exit  FALSTAFI  . 

Mrs.  Ford.  I  would  my  husband  would  meet  him 
in  this  shape  :  he  cannot  abide  the  old  woman  of 
Brentford ;  he  swears,  she's  a  witch ;  forbade  her 
my  house,  and  hath  threaten'd  to  beat  her. 

Mrs.  Page.  Heaven  guide  him  to  thy  husband's 
cudgel ;  and  the  devil  guide  his  cudgel  afterwards ! 

Mrs.  Ford.  But  is  my  husband  coming  ? 

Mrs.  Page.  Ay,  in  good  sadness,  is  he  ;  and  talks 
of  the  basket  too,  howsoever  he  hath  had  intelli- 
gence. 

Mrs.  Ford.  We'll  try  that ;  for  I'll  appoint  my 
men  to  carry  the  basket  again,  to  meet  him  at  the 
door  with  it,  as  they  did  the  last  time. 

Mrs.  Pa^e.  Nay,  but  he'll  be  here  presently : 
let's  go  dress  him  like  the  witch  of  Brentford.8 

7  A  hat  composed  of  the  weaver's  tufts,  or  thmms,  or  of  very 
coarse  cloth.     A  .•mtffler  was  a  part  of  female  attiie  which  onlj 
covered  the  lower  part  of  the  face. 

8  This  old  witch,  Jyl  or  Gillian  of  Brentford,  seems  to  have  been 


3UU  MERRY    WIVES  AST   FV 

Mrs.  Ford.  I'll  first  direct  my  men  what  they 
shall  do  with  the  basket.  Go  up ;  I'll  bring  linen 
for  him  straight.  [Exit. 

Mrs.  Page.  Hang  him,  dishonest  varlet !  we  can- 
not misuse  him  enough. 

We'll  leave  a  proof,  by  that  which  we  will  do, 
Wives  may  be  merry,  and  yet  honest  too : 
We  do  not  act,  that  often  jest  and  laugh ; 
'Tis  old  but  true,  "  Still  swine  eat  all  the  draff." 

[Exit. 

Re-enter  Mrs.  FORD  with  two  Servants. 

Mrs.  Ford.  Go,  sirs,  take  the  basket  again  on 
your  shoulders :  your  master  is  hard  at  door ;  if  he 
bid  you  set  it  down,  obey  him :  Quickly  ;  despatch. 

1  Serv.    Come,  come,  take  it  up.  [Exit. 

2  Serv.    Pray  heaven,  it  be  not  full  of  knight 
again.9 

1  Serv.  I  hope  not ;  I  had  as  lief  bear  so  much 
lead. 

Enter  FORD,  PAGE,  SHALLOW,  CAIUS,  and  Sir 
HUGH  EVANS. 

Ford.  Ay,  but  if  it  prove  true,  master  Page,  have 
you  any  way  then  to  unfool  me  again  ?  —  Set  down 
the  basket,  villain :  —  Somebody  call  my  wife  :  — 
Youth  in  a  basket !  —  O,  you  panderly  rascals ! 
there's  a  knot,  a  ging,10  a  pack,  a  conspiracy  against 
me :  Now  shall  the  devil  be  sham'd.  What !  wife, 

a  character  well  known  in  popular  story  at  the  time.  "  Jyl  of 
Brentford's  Testament  "  was  printed  by  Copland  long  before,  and 
Laneham  enumerates  it  as  in  the  collection  of  Captain  Cox,  the 
mason,  now  well  known  to  all,  from  the  mention  of  him  in  the 
romance  of  Kenilworth. 

*  Modern  editions  benumb  this  passage  by  putting  in  a  the  be 
fore  knight.  H. 

10  Gang. 


SC.  II.  OF    WINDSOR.  301 

I  say !  come,  come  forth :  behold  what  honest 
clothes  you  send  forth  to  bleaching. 

Page.  Why,  this  passes  !  n  Master  Ford,  you  are 
not  to  go  loose  any  longer ;  you  must  be  pinion'd. 

Eva.  Why,  this  is  lunatics  !  this  is  mad  as  a  mad 
dog! 

Shot.  Indeed,  master  Ford,  this  is  not  well;  in- 
deed. 

Enter  Mrs.  FORD. 

Ford.  So  say  I  too,  sir.  —  Come  hither,  mistress 
Ford  ;  mistress  Ford,  the  honest  woman,  the  modest 
wife,  the  virtuous  creature,  that  hath  the  jealous  fool 
to  her  husband  !  —  I  suspect  without  cause,  mistress, 
do  I? 

Mrs.  Ford.  Heaven  be  my  witness,  you  do,  if 
you  suspect  me  in  any  dishonesty. 

Ford.  Well  said,  brazen-face ;  hold  it  out.  — 
Come  forth,  sirrah.  [Pulls  the  clothes  out  of  the  basket. 

Page.  This  passes  ! 

Mrs.  Ford.  Are  you  not  asham'd  1  let  the  clothes 
alone. 

Ford.  I  shall  find  you  anon. 

Eva.  'Tis  unreasonable  !  Will  you  take  up  your 
wife's  clothes  ?  Come  away. 

Ford.  Empty  the  basket,  I  say. 

Mrs.  Ford.  Why,  man,  why? 

Ford.  Master  Page,  as  I  am  a  man,  there  waa 
one  convey'd  out  of  my  house  yesterday  in  this 
basket :  Why  may  not  he  be  there  again  ?  In  my 
house  I  am  sure  he  is :  my  intelligence  is  true ;  my 
jealousy  is  reasonable :  Pluck  me  out  all  the  linen. 

Mrs.  Ford.  If  you  find  a  man  there,  he  shall  die 
a  flea's  death. 

11  Surpasses,  or  goes  beyond  all  bounds 


302  MERRY    WIVES  ACT  I? 

Page.  Here's  no  man. 

Shal.  By  my  fidelity,  this  is  not  well,  master 
Ford ;  tliis  wrongs  you. 

Eva.  Master  Ford,  you  must  pray,  and  not  fol- 
low the  imaginations  of  your  own  heart :  this  is 
jealousies. 

Ford.  Well,  he's  not  here  I  seek  for. 

Page.    No,  nor  nowhere  else,  but  in  your  brain. 

Ford.  Help  to  search  my  house  this  one  time  :  if 
I  find  not  what  I  seek,  show  no  colour  for  my  ex- 
tremity, let  me  for  ever  be  your  table-sport ;  let  them 
say  of  me,  "  As  jealous  as  Ford,  that  search'd  a 
hollow  walnut  for  his  wife's  leman." 12  Satisfy  me 
once  more ;  once  more  search  with  me. 

Mrs.  Ford.  What  hoa !  mistress  Page  !  come  you 
and  the  old  woman  down  ;  my  husband  will  come 
into  the  chamber. 

Ford.  Old  woman  !    What  old  woman's  that  1 

Mrs.  Ford.  Why,  it  is  my  maid's  aunt  of  Brent 
ford. 

Ford.  A  witch,  a  quean,  an  old  cozening  quean ! 
Have  I  not  forbid  her  my  house  1  She  comes  of 
errands,  does  she  1  We  are  simple  men  ;  we  do  not 
know  what's  brought  to  pass  under  the  profession 
of  fortune  telling.  She  works  by  charms,  by  spells, 
by  the  figure,  and  such  daubery 13  as  this  is ;  beyond 
our  element :  we  know  nothing.  —  Come  down, 
you  witch,  you  hag  you !  come  down,  I  say. 

Mrs.  Ford.  Nay,  good,  sweet  husband :  —  Good 
gentlemen,  let  him  not  strike  the  old  woman. 

Knter  FALSTAFF  in  women's  clothes,  led  by  Mrs.  PAGE. 

Mrs.  Page,  Come,  mother  Prat  •  come,  give  me 
your  hand. 

11  Lover.  "  Falsehood   imposition 


SC.  11.  OF    WINDSOR.  tJIKl 

Ford.  I'll  prat  her : — Out  of  my  door,  you  witch  ! 
[Beats  him.]  you  rag,  you  baggage,  you  polecat,  you 
ronyon!  u  out!  out!  I'll  conjure  you,  I'll  fortune- 
tell  you.  [Exit  FALSTAFF. 

Mrs.  Page.  Are  you  not  asham'd  ?  I  think  you 
have  kill'd  the  poor  woman. 

Mrs.  Ford.  Nay,  he  will  do  it :  —  'Tis  a  goodly 
credit  for  you. 

Ford.  Hang  her,  witch! 

Eva.  By  yea  and  no,  I  think,  the  'oman  is  a  witch 
indeed  :  I  like  not  when  a  'oman  has  a  great  peard ; 
I  spy  a  great  peard  under  her  muffler. 

Ford.  Will  you  follow,  gentlemen  ?  I  beseech 
you,  follow ;  see  but  the  issue  of  my  jealousy :  If  I 
cry  out  thus  upon  no  trail,15  never  trust  me  when  I 
open  again. 

Page.  Let's  obey  his  humour  a  little  further : 
Come,  gentlemen. 

[Exeunt  PAGE,  FORD,  SHAL.,  and  EVANS. 

Mrs.  Page.  Trust  me,  he  beat  him  most  pitifully. 

Mrs.  Ford.  Nay,  by  the  mass,  that  he  did  not ; 
he  beat  him  most  unpitifully,  methought. 

Mrs.  Page.  I'll  have  the  cudgel  hallow'd,  and 
hung  o'er  the  altar  :  it  hath  done  meritorious  ser- 
vice. 

Mrs.  Ford.  What  think  you  1  May  we,  with  the 
warrant  of  womanhood  and  the  witness  of  a  good 
conscience,  pursue  him  with  any  further  revenge  ? 

Mrs.  Page.  The  spirit  of  wantonness  is,  sure, 
scar'd  out  of  him :  if  the  devil  have  him  not  in  fee- 
simple,  Avith  fine  and  recovery,18  he  will  never,  I 
think,  in  the  way  of  waste,  attempt  us  again. 

14  Means  much  the  same  as  scall  or  scab,  from  rogneuse,  Fn. 
16  Expressions  taken  from  the  chase.     Trail  is  the  scent  left 
by  the  passage  of  the  game.     To  cry  out  is  to  open,  or  bark. 
"    This  H  one  of  the  many  instances  of  Shakespeare's  lega' 


304  MERRY     WIVES  ACT  IV 

Mrs.  Ford.  Shall  we  tell  our  husbands  how  we 
have  serv'd  him  1 

Mrs.  Page.  Yes,  by  all  means;  if  it  be  but  to 
scrape  the  figures  out  of  your  husband's  brains.  If 
they  can  find  in  their  hearts,  the  poor  unvirtuous  fat 
knight  shall  be  any  further  afflicted,  we  two  will  sti" 
be  the  ministers. 

Mrs.  Ford.  I'll  warrant  they'll  have  him  publicl} 
gbam'd :  and,  methinks,  there  would  be  no  period :7 
to  the  jest,  should  he  not  be  publicly  sham'd. 

Mrs.  Page.  Come,  to  the  forge  with  it  then ; 
shape  it :  I  would  not  have  tilings  cool.  [Exeunt. 

SCENE  III.     A  Room  in  the  Garter  Inn. 

Enter  Host  and  BARDOLPH. 

Bard.  Sir,  the  Germans  desire  to  have  three  ol 
your  horses  :  the  duke  himself  will  be  to-morrow  at 
court,  and  they  are  going  to  meet  him. 

Host.  What  duke  should  that  be  comes  so  se 
cretly  1  I  hear  not  of  him  in  the  court :  Let  me 
speak  with  the  gentlemen ;  they  speak  English  ? 

Bard.  Ay,  sir ;  I'll  call  them  to  you. 

Host.  They  shall  have  my  horses ;  but  I'll  make 
them  pay ;  I'll  sauce  them  :  they  have  had  my  house 
a  week  at  command  ;  I  have  turn'd  away  my  other 

knowledge.  Ritson  remarks  upon  the  passage  :  "  Fee-simple  is  the 
largest  estate,  and  fine  and  recovery  the  strongest  assurance, 
known  to  English  law."  So  that  the  passage  means,  "  If  Falstaff 
be  not,  to  all  intents  and  purposes,  the  devil's  chattel,"  &e.  Com- 
mentators have  wondered  how  Mrs.  Page  came  to  know  so  much 
of  legal  terms  :  But  is  it  not  equally  strange  that  Shakespeare's 
average  characters,  in  their  ordinary  talk,  should  speak  greater 
poetry  than  any  other  poet  has  written  ?  Surely  much  of  his  art 
lies  in  putting  his  own  intellectuality  into  his  characters  without 
marring  their  individuality.  B 

17  That  is,  no  end  to  the  jest:  we  shall  have  to  keep  it  up  i» 
other  forms,  until  it  wind  up  iu  a  public  shame.  H. 


SC.   IV.  OF    WINDSOR.  3Uft 

guests :   they   must  come   off;  l8  I'll   sauce   them : 
Come.  [Exeunt* 

SCENE    IV.     A  Room  in  FORD'S  House. 

Enter  PAGE,  FORD,  Mrs.  PAGE,  Mrs.  FORD,  and 
Sir  HUGH  EVANS. 

Eva.  'Tis  one  of  the  pest  discretions  of  a  'omaa 
at;  ever  I  did  look  upon. 

Page.  And  did  he  send  you  both  these  letters  at 
an  instant  1 

Mrs.  Page.  Within  a  quarter  of  an  hour. 

Ford.   Pardon  me,  wife  :    Henceforth  do  what 

thou  wilt ; 

I  rather  will  suspect  the  sun  with  cold,1 
Than  thee  with  wantonness :  now  doth  thy  honour 

stand, 

In  him  that  was  of  late  an  heretic, 
As  firm  as  faith. 

Page.  'Tis  well,  'tis  well ;  no  more. 

Be  not  as  extreme  in  submission, 
As  in  offence ; 

But  let  our  plot  go  forward :  let  our  wives 
Yet  once  again,  to  make  us  public  sport, 
Appoint  a  meeting  with  this  old  fat  fellow, 
Where  we  may  take  him,  and  disgrace  him  for  it. 

Ford.    There   is   no   better  way  than   that  they 
spoke  of. 

Page.  How  ?  to  send  him  word  they'll  meet  him 
in  the  park  at  midnight  ?  fie,  fie  !  he'll  never  come. 

Eva.  You  see,  he  has  been  thrown  into  the  rivers ; 

18  To  come  off  is  to  pay,  to  come  down  (as  we  now  say)  with  i 
sum  of  money.  It  is  a  phrase  of  frequent  occurrence  in  old  plays 

1  The  reading  in  the  text  is  Mr.  Rowe's.  The  old  copies  read 
"  I  rather  will  suspect  the  sun  with  sold '' 


300  MERRY    WIVES  ACT  TV. 

and  has  been  grievously  peaten,  as  an  old  'oman 
methinks  there  should  be  terrors  in  him,  that  he 
should  not  come ;  methinks,  his  flesh  is  punish'd, 
ne  shall  have  no  desires. 

Page-  So  think  I  too. 

Mrs.  Ford.  Devise  but  how  you'll  use  him  when 

he  comes, 
And  let  us  two  devise  to  bring  him  thither. 

Mrs.  Page.  There  is  an  old  tale  goes,  that  Herne 

the  hunter, 

Sometime  a  keeper  here  in  Windsor  forest, 
Doth  all  the  winter  time,  at  still  midnight, 
Walk  round  about  an  oak,  with  great  ragg'd  horns ; 
And  there  he  blasts  the  tree,  and  takes 2  the  cattle ; 
And  makes  milch-kine  yield  blood,  and  shakes  a 

chain 

In  a  most  hideous  and  dreadful  manner : 
You  have  heard  of  such  a  spirit ;  and  well  you  know, 
The  superstitious  idle-headed  eld  3 
Receiv'd,  and  did  deliver  to  our  age, 
This  tale  of  Herne  the  hunter  for  a  truth. 

Page.  Why,  yet  there  want  not  many,  that  do  fear 
In  deep  of  night  to  walk  by  this  Herne's  oak : 4 
But  what  of  this  1 

Mrs.  Ford.  Marry,  this  is  our  device  : 

To  take  signifies  to  seize  or  strike  with  a  disease,  to  blast, 
So,  in  Lear,  Act  ii.  sc.  4 :  "  Strike  her  young  bones,  ye  taking 
airs,  with  lameness."  And  in  Hamlet,  Act  i.  sc.  1 :  "  No  planets 
stiike,  no  fairy  takes,  no  witch  has  power  to  charm."  "  Of  a 
horse  that  is  taken.  A  horse  that  is  bereft  of  his  feeling,  moving1, 
or  stirring,  is  said  to  be  taken,  and  in  sooth  so  he  is,  in  that  he  is 
arrested  by  so  villainous  a  disease  :  yet  some  farriers,  not  well 
understanding  the  ground  of  the  disease,  conster  the  word  taken 
to  be  stricken  by  some  planet,  or  evil  spirit,  which  is  false."  — 
Markham  on  Horses,  1595. 

3  Old  age. 

4  The  tree  which  was  by  tradition   shown   as  Herne's    ortk, 
oeiiig  totally  decayed,  via  cut  down  by  order  of  George  III   in 
17S6. 


SC.  IV.  OF    WINDSOR.  307 

That  Falstaff  at  that  oak  shall  meet  with  us, 
Disguis'd  like  Herne,  with  huge  horns  on  his  head 

Page.  Well,  let  it  not  be  doubted  but  he'll  come, 
And  in  this   shape :  When  you  have  brought  him 

tliither, 
What  shall  be  done  with  him  1  what  is  your  plot  1 

Mrs.  Page.  That  likewise  have  we  thought  upon, 

and  thus : 

Nan  Page  my  daughter,  and  my  little  son, 
And  three  or  four  more  of  their  growth,  we'll  dress 
Like  urchins,  ouphes,5  and  fairies,  green  and  white 
With  rounds  of  waxen  tapers  on  their  heads, 
And  rattles  in  their  hands:  Upon  a  sudden, 
As  Falstaff,  she,  and  I,  are  newly  met, 
Let  them  from  forth  a  saw-pit  rush  at  once 
With  some  diffused  song:8  upon  their  sight, 
We  two  in  great  amazedness  will  fly : 
Then  let  them  all  encircle  him  about, 
And,  fairy-like,  to-pinch 7  the  unclean  knight » 
And  ask  him  why,  that  hour  of  fairy  revel. 
In  their  so  sacred  paths  he  dares  to  tread, 
In  shape  profane. 

Mrs.  Ford.  And  till  he  tell  the  truth, 

Let  the  supposed  fairies  pinch  him  sound,8 
And  burn  him  with  their  tapers. 

Mrs.  Page.  The  truth  being  known. 

We'll  all  present  ourselves ;  dis-horn  the  spirit, 
And  mock  him  home  to  Windsor. 

Ford.  The  children  must 

Be  practis'd  well  to  this,  or  they'll  ne'er  do't. 

6  Elves,  hobg-oblins. 

•  That  is,  some  wild,  irregular,  fairy-like  song.  B. 

7  To-pinck :  to  has  here  an  augmentative  sense,  like  be  has  sinca 
had :  all  was  generally  prefixed.   Spenser  has  all  to-torn,  all  to-rent 
&.C.,  and  Milton  in  Comus  all  to-ruffled. 

*  Sound,  for  soundly,  the  adjective  used  as  an  adverb 


tS08  MERRY     WIVES  ACT  IV 

Eva.  I  will  teach  the  children  their  behaviours, 
and  I  will  be  like  a  Jaek-an-apes  also,  to  buru  the 
knight  with  my  taber. 

Ford.  That  will  be  excellent.  I'll  go  buy  them 
vizards. 

Mrs.  Page.  My  Nan  shall  be  the  queen  of  all  the 

fairies, 
Finely  attired  in  a  robe  of  white. 

Page.  That  silk  will  I  go  buy  ;  —  [Aside.]  and 

in  that  tire 

Shall  master  Slender  steal  my  Nan  away, 
And   marry  her  at  Eton.  [  To  them.]  Go,  send  to 

Falstaff  straight. 

Ford.    Nay,  I'll  to  him  again  in  name  of  Brook ; 
He'll  tell  me  all  his  purpose  :  Sure,  he'll  come. 
Mrs.  Page.  Fear  not  you  that :  Go,  get  us  prop 

erties,9 
And  tricking  for  our  fairies. 

Eva.  Let  us  about  it :  It  is  admirable  pleasures, 
and  fery  honest  knaveries. 

[Exeunt  PAGE,  FORD,  and  EVANS. 
Mrs.  Page.  Go,  mistress  Ford, 
Send  quickly  to  Sir  John,  to  know  his  mind. 

[Exit  Mrs.  FORD. 

I'll  to  the  doctor :  he  hath  my  good  will, 
And  none  but  he,  to  marry  with  Nan  Page. 
That  Slender,  though  well  landed,  is  an  idiot ; 
And  him  my  husband  best  of  all  affects  : 
The  doctor  is  well  money'd,  and  his  friends 
Potent  at  court :  he,  none  but  he,  shall  have  her, 
Though  twenty  thousand  worthier  come  to  crave  her 

[Exit 

'  Properties  are  little  incidental  necessaries  to  a  theatre :  tric.\ 
ing  It  dross  or  ornament. 


SC.  V  OF    WINDSOR.  3N9 

SCENE    V.     A  Room  in  the  Garter  Inn. 

Enter  Host  and  SIMPLE. 

Host.  What  would'st  thou  have,  boor  ?  what, 
tliick-skin  ?  speak,  breathe,  discuss ;  brief,  short, 
quick,  snap. 

Sim.  Marry,  sir,  I  come  to  speak  with  Sir  John 
Falstaff  from  master  Slender. 

Host.  There's  his  chamber,  his  house,  his  caslle, 
his  standing-bed,  and  truckle-bed : '  'tis  painted 
about  with  the  story  of  the  prodigal,  fresh  and  new : 
Go,  knock  and  call :  he'll  speak  like  an  Anthro- 
pophaginian  2  unto  thee  :  Knock,  I  say. 

Sim.  There's  an  old  woman,  a  fat  woman,  gone 
up  into  his  chamber ;  I'll  be  so  bold  as  stay,  sir, 
till  she  come  down :  I  come  to  speak  with  her, 
indeed. 

Host.  Ha  !  a  fat  woman  ?  the  knight  may  be 
robbed  :  I'll  call.  —  Bully  knight !  Bully  Sir  John  ! 
speak  from  thy  lungs  military :  Art  thou  there  1  it 
is  thine  Host,  thine  Ephesian,  calls. 

Fal.   [y!6<we.]   How  now,  mine  Host  1 

Host.  Here's  a  Bohemian-Tartar  tarries  the  com 
ing  down  of  thy  fat  woman  :  Let  her  descend,  bully, 
let   her   descend ;    my  chambers  are  honourable  • 
Fie  !  privacy  ?  fie  ! 

Enter  FALSTAFF. 

PaL  There  was,  mine  Host,  an  old  fat  womau 
even  now  with  me  ;  but  she's  gone. 

1  The  usual  furniture  of  chambers,  at  that  time,  was  a.  standing- 
bed,  under  which  was  a  troclile,  truckle,  or  running  bed  :  from 
trochlea,  a  low  wheel  or  castor.  In  the  standing  bed  lay  the  m:  w- 
ter.  in  the  truckle  the  servant. 

*  That  is,  a  cannibal :  mine  Host  uses  these  fustian  words  w 
astonish  Simple 


HID  MERRY    WIVES  4CT   IV 

Sim.  Pray  you,  sir,  was't  not  the  wise  womar  ' 
of  Brentford  1 

Fal.  Ay,  marry,  was  it,  muscle-shell : 4  \Vhat 
would  you  with  her  ? 

Sim.  My  master,  sir,  my  master  Slender,  sent  to 
her,  seeing  her  go  thorough  the  streets,  to  know,  sir, 
whether  one  Nym,  sir,  that  beguil'd  him  of  a  chain, 
had  the  chain,  or  no. 

Fal.  I  spake  with  the  old  woman  about  it. 

Sim.  And  what  says  she,  I  pray,  sir  1 

Fal.  Marry,  she  says  that  the  very  same  man 
that  beguil'd  master  Slender  of  his  chain,  cozen'd 
him  of  it. 

Sim.  I  would  I  could  have  spoken  with  the  wo 
man  herself:  I  had  other  things  to  have  spoken  with 
her  too,  from  him. 

Fal.  What  are  they  ?  let  us  know. 

Host.  Ay,  come  ;   quick. 

Sim.  I  may  not  conceal 5  them,  sir. 

Fal.  Conceal  them,  or  thou  diest. 

Sim.  Why,  sir,  they  were  nothing  but  about  mis 
tress  Anne  Page ;  to  know  if  it  were  my  master's 
fortune  to  have  her,  or  no. 

Fal.   'Tis,  'tis  his  fortune. 

Sim.    What,  sir  1 

Fal.  To  have  her,  —  or  no  :  Go ;  say,  the  wo- 
man told  me  so. 

Sim.  May  I  be  so  bold  to  say  so,  sir  ? 

Fat.  Ay,  Sir  Tike  ; 8  who  more  bold  7 

3  Scott   in  his  Discovery  of  Witchcraft  says:  "At  this  day  i. 
is  indifferent  in  the  English  tongue  to  say,  She  is  a  witch,  or,  She 
is  a  wise-woman."  H. 

4  He  calls  poor  Simple  mitscle-sliell,  because  he  stands  with  his 
mouth  open. 

*  The  "  muscle-shell  "  means  reveal.  H. 

•  The  force  of  tike  as  here  used  may  be  seen  in  Buras's  talf 


SC.  V.  OF    WINDSOR.  311 

Sim.  I  thank  your  worship  :  I  shall  make  mj 
master  glad  with  these  tidings.  [Exit  SIMPLE. 

Host.  Thou  art  clerkly,7  thou  art  clerkly,  Sir 
John  :  Was  there  a  wise  woman  with  thee  ? 

Fal.  Ay,  that  there  was,  mine  Host ;  one  that  hath 
taught  me  more  wit  than  ever  I  learn'd  before  in  my 
life  :  and  I  paid  nothing  for  it  neither,  but  was  paid 
for  my  learning. 

Enter  BARDOLPH. 

Bard.  Out,  alas,  sir  !  cozenage  ;  mere  cozenage  ! 

Host.  Where  be  my  horses  1  speak  well  of  them, 
varletto. 

Bard.  Run  away  with  the  cozeners  :  for  so  soon 
as  I  came  beyond  Eton,  they  threw  me  off,  from 
behind  one  of  them,  in  a  slough  of  mire  ;  and  set 
spurs,  and  away,  like  three  German  devils,  three 
Doctor  Faustuses.8 

Host.  They  are  gone  but  to  meet  the  duke,  villain : 
Do  not  say,  they  be  fled :  Germans  are  honest  men. 

Enter  Sir  HUGH  EVANS. 
Eva.  Where  is  mine  Host  1 
Host.  What  is  the  matter,  sir  ? 

of  The  Twa  Dogs ;  one  of  which  was  a  dog  "  o'  high  degree, 
whose 

"  locked,  letter'd,  braw  brass  collar 
Show'd  him  the  gentleman  and  scholar;" 

the  other  was  "  a  ploughman's  collie  :  "  — 

1  He  was  a  gash  an'  faithfu'  tyke 
As  ever  lap  a  sheugh  or  dyke. 
His  honest,  sonsie,  braws'nt  face 
Aye  gat  him  friends  in  ilka  place." 

The  word  is  still  used  thus  in  Yorkshire  and  Scotland.  B. 

7  That  is,  scholar-like. 

8  Dr.  Fanstus  was  a  German  necromancer,  made  popular  bj 
(Le  story  of  his  life  and  acts,  and  hv  Mnrlowe's  play.  H. 


812  MERRY    WIVES  ACT   IV 

Eva.  Have  a  care  of  your  entertainments  :  there 
is  a  friend  of  mine  come  to  town  tells  me,  there  is 
three  cousin  germans,  that  has  cozen'd  all  the  hostR 
of  Readings,  of  Maidenhead,  of  Colebrook,  of  horses 
and  money.  I  tell  you  for  good-will,  look  you  : 
you  are  wise,  and  full  of  gibes  and  vlouting-stogs ; 
and  it  is  not  convenient  you  should  be  cozen'd  : 
Fare  you  well.  [Erit. 

Enter  Doctor  CAIUS. 

Caius.  Vere  is  mine  Host  de  Jarterre? 

Host.  Here,  master  doctor,  in  perplexity,  and 
doubtful  dilemma. 

Caius.  I  cannot  tell  vat  is  dat :  but  it  is  tell-a  me- 
dat  you  make  grand  preparations  for  a  duke  de  Jar- 
many  :  by  my  trot,  dere  is  no  duke,  dat  the  court  is 
know  to  come ;  I  tell  you  for  good  vill :  adieu.  [ Exit. 

Host.  Hue  and  cry,  villain!  go.  —  Assist  me, 
knight ;  I  am  undone.  —  Fly,  run,  hue  and  cry, 
villain !  I  am  undone  !  [Exeunt  Host  and  BARDOLPH. 

Fal.  I  would  all  the  world  might  be  cozen'd; 
for  I  have  been  cozen'd  and  beaten  too.  If  it  should 
come  to  the  ear  of  the  court,  how  I  have  been  trans- 
formed, and  how  my  transformation  hath  been  wash'd 
and  cudgel'd,  they  would  melt  me  out  of  my  fat, 
drop  by  drop,  and  liquor  fishermen's  boots  with  me : 
[  warrant  they  would  whip  me  with  their  fine  wits, 
till  I  were  as  crest-fallen  as  a  dried  pear.  I  never 
prosper'd  since  I  forswore  myself  at  Primcro.9 
Well,  if  my  wind  were  but  long  enough  to  say  my 
prayers,  I  would  repent. — 

.     Enter  Mrs.  QUICKLY. 
Now !  whence  come  you  ? 

*  Primero  was  the  fashionable  game  at  cards  in  Shakespcaro  s 
tim«. 


!>C.  VI.  OF    WINDSOR.  Hlft 

Quick,  From  the  two  parties,  forsooth. 

Fal.  The  devil  take  one  party,  a»  i  his  dam  the 
other,  and  so  they  shall  be  both  bestowed  !  I  have 
suffer'd  more  for  their  sakes,  more  than  the  villa- 
nous  inconstancy  of  man's  disposition  is  able  to  bear. 

Quick.  And  have  not  they  suffer'd  1  Yes,  I  war- 
rant ;  speciously  one  of  them  :  mistress  Ford,  good 
heart,  is  beaten  black  and  blue,  that  you  cannot  see 
a  white  spot  about  her. 

Fal.  What  tell'st  thou  me  of  black  and  blue  !  J 
was  beaten  myself  into  all  the  colours  of  the  rain- 
bow, and  I  was  like  to  be  apprehended  for  the  witch 
of  Brentford  ;  but  that  my  admirable  dexterity  of 
wit,  my  counterfeiting  the  action  of  an  old  woman, 
deliver'd  me,  the  knave  constable  had  set  me  i'  the 
stocks,  i'  the  common  stocks,  for  a  witch. 

Quick.  Sir,  let  me  speak  with  you  in  your  cham 
ber  :  you  shall  hear  how  things  go  ;  and,  I  warrant, 
to  your  content.  Here  is  a  letter  will  say  somewhat. 
Good  hearts,  what  ado  here  is  to  bring  you  together  ! 
Sure,  one  of  you  does  not  serve  Heaven  well,  that 
you  are  so  cross'd. 

Fal.  Come  up  into  my  chamber.  [Exeunt. 

SCENE  VI.     Another  Room  in  the  Garter  Inn. 

Enter  FENTON  and  Host. 

Host.  Master  Fenton,  talk  not  to  me :  my  mind 
is  heavy ;  J  will  give  over  all. 

Pent.  Yet  hear  me  speak  :  Assist  me  in  my  pur- 
pose, 

And,  as  I  am  a  gentleman,  I'll  give  thee 
A  hundred  pound  in  gold,  more  than  your  loss. 

Host.  I  will  hear  you,  master  Fenton ;  and  I  wili. 
at  the  least,  keep  your  counsel. 


314  MERRY  WIVES  ACT  iv 

Fmt.   From  time  to  time  I  have  acquainted  you 
With  the  dear  love  I  bear  to  fair  Anne  Page  ; 
Who,  mutually,  hath  answer'd  my  affection, 
(So  far  forth  as  herself  might  be  her  chooser,) 
Even  to  my  wish  :  I  have  a  letter  from  her 
Of  such  contents  as  you  will  wonder  at ; 
The  mirth  whereof  so  larded  with  my  matter, 
That  neither,  singly,  can  be  manifested, 
Without  the  show  of  both ;  —  wherein  fat  Falstaff 
Hath  a  great  scene  :  the  image  of  the  jest 

[Showing  the  letter 

I'll  show  you  here  at  large.    Hark,  good  mine  Host  i 
To-night  at  Herne's  oak,  just  'twixt  twelve  and  one 
Must  my  sweet  Nan  present  the  fairy  queen  ; 
The  purpose  why,  is  here ;  '   in  which  disguise, 
While  other  jests  are  something  rank  on  foot. 
Her  father  hath  commanded  her  to  slip 
Away  with  Slender,  and  Avith  him  at  Eton 
Immediately  to  marry  :  she  hath  consented. 
Now,  sir, 

Her  mother,  ever  strong  against  that  match, 
And  firm  for  doctor  Caius,  hath  appointed 
That  he  shall  likewise  shuffle  her  away, 
While  other  sports  are  tasking  of  their  minds, 
And  at  the  deanery,  where  a  priest  attends, 
Straight  marry  her :  to  this  her  mother's  plot 
She,  seemingly  obedient,  likewise  hath 
Made  promise  to  the  doctor.  —  Now,  thus  it  rests  : 
Her  father  means  she  shall  be  all  in  white ; 
And  in  that  habit,  when  Slender  sees  his  time 
To  take  her  by  the  hand,  and  bid  her  go, 
She  shall  go  with  him:  —  her  mother  hath  intended, 
The  better  to  denote  her  to  the  doctor, 

they  must  all  be  mask'd  and  vizarded,) 

1  In  the  letter. 


SC.  VL  OF    WINDSOR.  315 

That  quaint  *  in  green  she  shall  be  loose  enrob'd, 
With  ribands  pendant,  flaring  'bout  her  head  • 
And  when  the  doctor  spies  his  vantage  ripe, 
To  pinch  her  by  the  hand,  and,  on  that  token, 
The  maid  hath  given  consent  to  go  with  him. 

Host.  Which  means  she  to  deceive  1   father  or 
mother  ? 

Pent.  Both,  my  good  Host,  to  go  along  with  me : 
And  here  it  rests,  —  that  you'll  procure  the  vicar 
To  stay  for  me  at  church,  'twixt  twelve  and  one, 
And,  in  the  lawful  name  of  marrying, 
To  give  our  hearts  united  ceremony. 

Host.  Well,  husband  your  device  :  I'll  to  the  vicar . 
Bring  you  the  maid,  you  shall  not  lack  a  priest. 

Pent.  So  shall  1  evermore  be  bound  to  thee ; 
Besides,  I'll  make  a  present  recompense.      [Exeunt, 


ACT  V. 

SCENE  I.     A  Room  in  the  Garter  Inri. 

Enter  FALSTAFF  and  Mrs.  QUICKLY. 

Pal.  Pr'ythee,  no  more  prattling ;  —  go.  —  I'll 
hold : '  Tliis  is  the  third  time ;  I  hope,  good  luck 
lies  in  odd  numbers.  Away,  go ;  they  say  there  is 
divinity  in  odd  numbers,  either  in  nativity,  chance, 
or  death.  —  Away. 

Quick.  I'll  provide  you  a  chain  ;  and  I'll  do  what 
I  can  to  get  you  a  pair  of  horns. 

*  Qraint,  here,  may  mean  neatly,  or  elegantly,  which  were  an- 
cient acceptations  of  the  word,  and  not  fantastically  '  but  eithei 
nense  will  suit. 

Keep  to  the  time. 


316  MERRY    WIVES  ACT  V 

FaL  Away  I  say ;  time  wears  :  hold  up  you) 
head  and  mince.2  [Exit  Mrs.  QUICKLY 

Enter  FORD. 

How  now,  master  Brook  ?  Master  Brook,  the  mat- 
ter will  be  known  to-night,  or  never.  Be  you  in  the 
Park  about  midnight,  at  Herne's  oak,  and  you  shall 
see  wonders. 

Ford,  Went  you  not  to  her  yesterday,  sir,  as  you 
told  me  you  had  appointed  1 

FaL  I  went  to  her,  master  Brook,  as  you  see,  like 
H  poor  old  man :  but  I  came  from  her,  master  Brook, 
like  a  poor  old  woman.  That  same  knave,  Ford, 
her  husband,  hath  the  finest  mad  devil  of  jealousy 
in  him,  master  Brook,  that  ever  govern'd  frenzy.  1 
will  tell  you  :  —  He  beat  me  grievously,  in  the  shape 
of  a  woman  ;  for  in  the  shape  of  man,  master  Brook, 
1  fear  not  Goliah  with  a  weaver's  beam ;  because 
I  know  also,  life  is  a  shuttle.3  I  am  in  haste  :  go 
along  with  me ;  I'll  tell  you  all,  master  Brook. 
Since  I  pluck'd  geese,4  play'd  truant,  and  whipp'd 
top,  J  knew  not  what  't  was  to  be  beaten,  till  lately. 
Follow  me  :  I'll  tell  you  strange  tilings  of  this  knave 
Ford  ;  on  whom  to-night  I  will  be  revenged,  and  I 
will  deliver  his  wife  into  your  hand.  —  Follow : 
Strange  tilings  in  hand,  master  Brook  !  follow. 

[Exeunt 

*  That  is,  walk:    to  mince   signified    to    walk    with    affected 
delicacy. 

*  An  allusiou  to  the  Book  of  Job,  c.  vii.  v.  6.     "  My  days  are 
•vriftcr  than  a  weaver's  shuttle." 

4  To  strip  a  living  goose  of  its  feathers  was  forrrerly  an  act  of 
puerile  barl>arity 


6.C.  in.  OP    WINDSOR.  31? 

SCENE   H.     Windsor  Park. 

Enter  PAGE,  SHALLOW,  and  SLENDER. 

Page.  Come,  come;  we'll  couch  i'  the  castle- 
ditch,  till  we  see  the  light  of  our  fairies.  —  Remem- 
lier,  son  Slender,  my  daughter. 

Skn.  Ay,  forsooth ;  I  have  spoke  with  her,  and 
we  have  a  nay-word  '  how  to  know  one  another.  1 
come  to  her  in  white,  and  cry  "  mum  ;  "  she  cries 
"  budget ; "  and  by  that  we  know  one  another. 

SJial.  That's  good  too :  But  what  needs  either 
your  "  mum,"  or  her  "  budget ; "  the  white  will 
decipher  her  well  enough.  —  It  hath  struck  ten 
o'clock. 

Page.  The  night  is  dark ;  light  and  spirits  will 
become  it  well.  Heaven  prosper  our  sport !  No 
man  means  evil  but  the  devil,8  and  we  shall  know 
him  by  his  horns.  Let's  away ;  follow  me.  [Exeunt 

SCENE  in.     A  Street  in  Windsor. 

Enter  Mrs.  PAGE,  Mrs.  FORD,  and  Dr.  CAIUS. 

Mrs.  Page.  Master  doctor,  my  daughter  is  in 
green :  when  you  see  your  time,  take  her  by  the 
hand,  away  with  her  to  the  deanery,  and  despatch 
it  quickly.  Go  before  into  the  park :  we  two  must 
go  together. 

Caius.  I  know  vat  I  have  to  do  :  Adieu. 

Mrs.  Page.  Fare  you  well,  sir.  [Exit  CAIUS.] 
My  husband  will  not  rejoice  so  much  at  the  abuse 
of  Falstaff,  as  he  will  chafe  at  the  doctor's  marry 

*  Watchword. 

1  Page  indirectly  alludes  to  FalstafT,  who  was  to  have  boras  on 
bid  head. 


31S  MERRY    WIVES  ACT  V. 

ing  my  daughter  :  but  'tis  no  matter  ;  better  a  little 
chiding,  than  a  great  deal  of  heart-break. 

Mrs.  Ford.  Where  is  Nan  now,  and  her  troop  of 
fairies  1  and  the  Welch  devil,  Hugh  ? 

Mrs.  Page.  They  are  all  couch'd  in  a  pit  hard 
by  Herne's  oak,  with  obscur'd  lights ;  which  at  the 
very  instant  of  Falstaff's  and  our  meeting,  they  will 
at  once  display  to  the  night. 

Mrs.  Ford.  That  cannot  choose  but  amaze  him. 

Mrs.  Page.  If  he  be  not  amaz'd,  he  will  be 
mock'd ;  if  he  be  amaz'd,  he  will  every  way  be 
mock'd. 

Mrs.  Ford.  We'll  betray  him  finely. 

Mrs.  Page.    Against   such    lewdsters,  and  their 

lechery, 
Those  that  betray  them  do  no  treachery. 

Mrs.  Ford.  The  hour  draws  on :  To  the  oak,  to 
the  oak !  [Exeunt 

SCENE   IV.     Windsor  Park. 

Enter  Sir  HUGH  EVANS  and  Fairies. 

Eva.  Trib,  trib,  fairies :  come  ;  and  remember 
your  parts  :  Be  pold,  I  pray  you ;  follow  me  into 
the  pit ;  and  when  I  give  the  watch-'ords,  do  as  I 
pid  you :  Come,  come ;  trib,  trib.  [Exeunt. 

SCENE  V.     Another  part  of  the  Park. 

Enter  FALSTAFF  disguised,  with  a  buck's  head  on. 

Fal.  The  Windsor  bell  hath  struck  twelve  ;  the 
minute  draws  on.  Now,  the  hot-blooded  gods  assist 
me :  —  Remember,  Jove,  thou  wast  a  bull  for  thy 
Europa;  love  set  on  thy  horns: — O  powerful  love, 
that,  in  some  respects,  makes  a  beast  a  man  ;  in 


ac.  v.  OF  WINDSO  319 

some  other,  a  man  a  beast.  —  You  were  also,  Jupi 
ter,  a  swan,  for  the  love  of  Leda :  —  O,  omnipotent 
love  !  how  near  the  god  drew  to  the  complexion  of 
a  goose  !  —  A  fault  done  first  in  the  form  of  a  beast ; 

—  O  Jove,  a  beastly  fault !  and  then  another  fauli 
in  the  semblance  of  a  fowl :  think  on't,  Jove ;  a  foul 
fault.  —  When  gods  have  hot  backs,  what  shall  poor 
men  do  ?    For  me,  I  am  here  a  Windsor  stag ;  and 
the  fattest,  I  think,  i'  the  forest :  send  me  a  coo) 
rut-time,  Jove,  or   who  can  blame  me  to  piss  my 
tallow  7  '    Who  comes  here  1  my  doe  1 

Enter  Mrs.  FORD  and  Mrs.  PAGE. 

Mrs.  Ford.  Sir  John  1  art  thou  there,  my  deer 1 
my  male  deer  1 

Fal.  My  doe  with  the  black  scut  1  —  Let  the  sky 
rain  potatoes ;  let  it  thunder  to  the  tune  of  "  Green 
Sleeves  ;  "  hail  kissing-comfits,  and  snow  eringoes  , 
let  there  come  a  tempest  of  provocation,2  I  will 
shelter  me  here.  [Embracing  her. 

Mrs.  Ford.  Mistress  Page  is  come  with  me, 
sweetheart. 

Fal.  Divide  me  like  a  bribe-buck,3  each  a  haunch  . 
I  will  keep  my  sides  to  myself,  my  shoulders  for  the 

1  This  is  technical.  "  During  the  time  of  their  rut  the  harts 
live  with  small  sustenance.  —  The  red  mushroome  helpetr.  well  to 
make  them  pysse  their  greace,  they  are  then  in  so  vehement  beat.'' 

—  Turberviile's  Book  of  Hunting,  1575. 

*  The  sweet  potato  was  used  in  England  as  a  delicacy  long 
before   the    introduction   of  the   common   potato  by   Sir  "Walla 
Raleigh  in  1586.     It  was  imported  in  considerable  quantities  from 
Spain  and  the  Canaries,  and  was  supposed  to  possess  the  power 
of  restoring  decayed  vigour.     The  kissing-comfits  were  principally 
made  of  these  and  eringo  roots,  and  were  perfumed  to  make  the 
breath  sweet.     Gerarde  attributes  the  same  virtues  to  the  common 
potato,  which  be  distinguishes  as  the  Virginian  sort. 

*  That  is,  according  to  Theobald,  a  buck  sent  as  a  bribe.     The 
original   lias  brib'd  buck ;  and  bribe  anciently  meant  steal.     So 
that  a  brib'd  buck  is  a  stolen  buck.  H. 


&W  MERRY    WIVES  ACT  V 

fellow 4  of  this  walk,  and  my  horns  I  bequeath  youi 
husbands.  Am  I  a  woodman  ? 5  ha  !  Speak  I  like 
Herne  the  hunter  ?  —  Why,  now  is  Cupid  a  child  of 
conscience ;  he  makes  restitution.  As  I  am  a  true 
spirit,  welcome  !  [Noise  toithin* 

Mrs.  Page.  Alas  !    What  noise  1 

Mrs.  Ford.  Heaven  forgive  our  sins  ! 

Pal  What  should  this  be  ? 

Mrs.  Ford. 

Mrs.  Page. 

FaL  I  think  the  devil  will  not  have  me  damn'd, 
lest  the  oil  that  is  in  me  should  set  hell  on  fire ;  he 
would  never  else  cross  me  thus. 

Enter  Sir  HUGH  EVANS,  like  a  satyr;  Mrs.  QtriCKLf , 
and  PISTOL  ;  ANNE  PAGE,  as  the  Fairy  Queen, 
attended  by  her  brother  and  others,  dressed  like 
fairies,  with  waxen  tapers  on  their  heads. 

Anne.  Fairies,  black,  grey,  green,  and  white, 
You  moonshine  revellers,  and  shades  of  night, 
You  ouphen-heirs 6  of  fixed  destiny, 

Attend  your  office,  and  your  quality.7 

Crier  Hobgoblin,  make  the  fairy  oyes. 

*  The  keeper.     The  shoulders  of  the  buck  were  among  his  per- 
quisites. 

*  The  woodman  was  an  attendant  on  the  forester.     It  is  here 
howe%-er  used  in  a  wanton  sense,  for  one  who  chooses  female  game 
for  the  object  of  his  pursuit.     Thus,   in   Measure  for  Measure, 
Lucio  says,  "  The  Duke  is   a  better  woodman  thau  thou  takes! 
him  for." 

'  The  old  copy  reads  orphan-hens.  Warburton  reads  ouphen, 
and  not  without  plausibility  ;  ouphes  being  mentioned  before  and 
afterward.  Malone  thinks  it  means  mortals  by  birth,  but  adopted 
by  the  fairies ;  orphans  in  respect  of  their  real  parents,  and  now 
only  dependent  on  destiny  herself.  —  Singer. 

We  cannot  help  thinking  that  ouphen  is  the  true  word  ;  tbf 
meaning  being,  "  fairy  children,  who  execute  the  decrees  of 
destiny.'"  H 

7  Profession. 


»ii.  v.  OF  WINDSOR.  321 

Pist.     Elves,  list  your  names  :  silence,  you  airy 

toys  ! 

Cricket,  to  Windsor  chimneys  when  thou'st  leapt, 
Where  fires   thou  find'st  unrak'd,  and  hearths  un- 

swept, 

There  pinch  the  maids  as  blue  as  bilberry  : 
Our  radiant  queen  hates  sluts,  and  sluttery.8 

FaL  They  are  fairies  ;  he  that  speaks  to  them 

shall  die : 

I'L  wink  and  couch  :  No  man  their  works  must  eye. 
[Lies  down  upon  his  face. 

Eva.  Where's  Bead  ?  —  Go  you,  and  where  you 
find  a  maid, 

8  This  office  of  the  ancient  fairies  appears  to  have  been  quite 
•  favourite  theme  with  poets.     Thus  in  Draytou's  Nymphidia : 

"  These  make  our  girls  their  sluttery  rue, 
By  pinching  them  both  black  and  blue, 
And  put  a  penny  in  their  shoe, 

The  house  for  cleanly  sweeping." 

So  also  in  an  old  ballad  entitled  The  Merry  Pranks  of  Robin 
tioodfellow,  sometimes  attributed  to  Ben  Jonson  : 

"  When  house  and  harth  doth  sluttish  lye, 
I  pinch  the  maidens  black  and  blue; 
The  bed-clothes  from  the  bedd  pull  I, 
And  lay  them  naked  all  to  view." 

And  again  in  the  ancient  song  of  the  Fairy  Queen  i 
"  And,  if  the  bouse  be  foul 

With  platter,  dish,  or  bowl, 

Up  stairs  we  nimbly  creep, 

And  find  the  sluts  asleep : 
There  we  pinch  their  arms  and  thighes  j 
None  escapes,  nor  none  espies. 

But  if  the  house  be  swept, 

And  from  uncleanness  kept, 

We  praise  the  household  maid, 

And  duely  she  is  paid  : 
For  we  use  before  we  goe 
To  drop  a  tester  in  her  shoe." 

It  were  a  curious  inquiry,  what  this  superstition  had  to  do,  e» 
cause  or  effect,  with  the  well-known  cleanliness  of  the  English 
people.  B. 


322  ItfERRT    WIVES  ACT  V. 

That,  ere  she  sleep,  has  thrice  her  prayers  said, 

Raise  up  the  organs  of  her  fantasy,9 

Sleep  she  as  sound  as  careless  infancy  ; 

But  those  as  sleep,  and  think  not  on  their  sins, 

Pinch  them,   arms,   legs,   backs,   shoulders,   sides 

and  shins. 

Anne.  About,  about ! 

Search  Windsor  castle,  elves,  within  and  out : 
Strew  good  luck,  ouphes,  on  every  sacred  room ; 
That  it  may  stand  till  the  perpetual  doom, 
In  state  as  wholesome,  as  in  state  'tis  fit; 
Worthy  the  owner,  and  the  owner  it. 
The  several  chairs  of  order  look  you  scour 
With  juice  of  balm,  and  every  precious  flower : Ia 
Each  fair  instalment,  coat,  and  several  crest, 
With  loyal  blazon,  evermore  be  blest ! 
And  nightly,  meadow-fairies,  look,  you  sing, 
Like  to  the  Garter's  compass,  in  a  ring  : 
The  expressure  that  it  bears,  green  let  it  be, 
More  fertile-fresh  than  all  the  field  to  see  ; 
And,  Honi  soit  qui  mal  y  pense,  write, 
In  emerald  tufts,  flowers  purple,  blue,  and  white  ; 
Like  sapphire,  pearl,  and  rich  embroidery, 
Buckled  below  fair  knighthood's  bending  knee  : 
Fairies  use  flowers  for  their  charactery.11 
Away  ;  disperse  :    But,  till  'tis  one  o'clock, 
Our  dance  of  custom,  round  about  the  oak 
Of  Herne  the  hunter,  let  us  not  forget. 

Eva.  Pray  you,  lock  hand  in  hand ;  yourselves 

in  order  set : 


•  That  is.  elevate  her  fancy,  and  amuse  her  tranquil  mind  with 
gome  delightful  vision,  though  she  sleep  as  soundly  as  an  infant. 

10  It  was  an  article  of  ancient  luxury  to  rub  tables,  &c.  with 
aromatic  herbs.     Pliny  informs  us  that  the  Romans  did  so  to  driv* 
eway  evil  spirits. 

11  Charactery  is  a  writing  by  characters,  or  by  strange  merku 


SC.  V  OF    WINDSOR.  323 

And  twenty  glow-worms  shall  our  lanterns  be, 
To  guide  our  measure  round  about  the  tree. 
But,  stay  !    I  smell  a  man  of  middle  earth.18 

Fal.  Heaven  defend  me  from  that  Welch  fairy, 
lest  he  transform  me  to  a  piece  of  cheese  ! 

Pist.  Vile  worm,  thou  wast  o'erlook'd  IS  even  In 
thy  birth. 

Anne.  With  trial-fire  touch  me  his  finger-end  : 
If  he  be  chaste,  the  flame  will  back  descend, 
And  turn  him  to  no  pain  ;  but  if  he  start, 
It  is  the  flesh  of  a  corrupted  heart. 

Pist.  A  trial !  come. 

Eva.  Come,  will  this  wood  take  fire  f 

[They  burn  him  with  their  tapers 

Fal  Oh,  oh,  oh  ! 

Anne.  Corrupt,  corrupt,  and  tainted  in  desire  ! 
About  him,  fairies ;  sing  a  scornful  rhyme  ; 
And,  as  you  trip,  still  pinch  him  to  your  time  I4 

Song-. 

Fie  on  sinful  fantasy ! 
Fie  on  lust  and  luxury ! 

11  The  globe  was  often  called  "middle  earth."  H. 

18  By  overlooked,  is  here  meant  bewitched  by  an  evil  eye.  This 
use  of  the  word  sprung  from  the  popular  belief,  that  the  eyes  of 
fairies  and  witches  were  full  of  spells  and  enchantments.  See 
note  on  the  Merchant  of  Venice,  Act  iii.  sc.  2 :  "  Beshrew  your 
eyes,  they  have  o'erlooked  me."  H. 

14  After  this  line  Malone  and  others  add  the  following  from 
the  quartos  : 

"  Eva.    It  is  right ;  indeed  he  is  full  of  lecheries  and  iniquity." 

It  is  to  be  observed,  that  in  this  interlude  the  speakers,  except 
Falstaff,  do  not  appear  in  their  own  characters  :  they  are  acting 
parts  ;  and  surely  Sir  Hugh  would  not  speak  any  thing  that  was 
not  put  down  for  him.  It  is  true,  Falstaff  a  little  before  speaka 
of  "  that  V/elch  fairy ; "  but  he  does  this  from  the  Welchman'i 
Accent  not  from  his  saying  anj'  thing  that  is  not  in  his  part.  H 


324  MERRY    WIVES  ACT  V 

Lust  is  but  a  bloody  fire, 

Kindled  with  unchaste  desire, 

Fed  in  heart ;  whose  flames  aspire, 

As  thoughts  do  blow  them,  higher  and  higher. 

Pinch  him,  fairies,  mutually  ; 

Pinch  him  for  his  villany  ; 
Pinch  him,  and  burn  him,  and  turn  him  about, 
Till  candles,  and  starlight,  and  moonshine  be  out 

[During  this  song,  the  fairies  pinch  FALSTAFT.  Doc- 
tor CAIDS  comes  one  way,  and  steak  away  a  fairy 
in  green ;  SLENDER  another  way,  and  takes  off  a 
fairy  in  white ;  and  FENTON  comes,  and  steals  away 
ANNE  PAGE.  A  noise  of  hunting  is  made  within. 
All  the  fairies  run  away.  FALSTAFF  pulls  off  his 
buck's  head,  and  rises.] 

Enter  PAGE,  FORD,  Mrs.  PAGE,  and  Mrs.  FORD. 
They  lay  hold  on  him. 

Page.  Nay,  do  not  fly :  I  think  we  have  watch'd 

you  now. 
Will  none  but  Herne  the  hunter  serve  your  turn  ? 

Mrs.  Page.  I  pray  you,  come ;  hold  up  the  jest 

no  higher  :  — 

Now,  good  Sir  John,  how  like  you  Windsor  wives  1 
See  you  these,  husband  1  do  not  these  fair  yokes  '* 
Become  the  forest  better  than  the  town  ? 

Ford.  Now,  sir,  who's  a  cuckold  now  ?  —  Maste/ 
Brook,  Falstaff 's  a  knave,  a  cuckoldy  knave ;  here 
are  his  horns,  master  Brook  :  And,  master  Brook, 
he  hath  enjoyed  nothing  of  Ford's  but  his  buck 
basket,  his  cudgel,  and  twenty  pounds  of  money, 

16  The  extremities  of  yokes  for  oxen,  as  still  used  in  severa 
counties  of  England,  bend  upwards,  and, rising  very  high,  in  shai* 
resemble  horns. 


SC.  V.  OF    WINDSOR.  325 

which  must  be  paid  to  master  Brook :  his  horses  are 
arrested  for  it,  master  Brook. 

Mrs.  Ford.  Sir  John,  we   have   had  ill  luck  ;  wr 
could  never  meet.     I  will  never  take  you  for  my 
love  again,  but  I  will  always  count  you  my  deer. 
,      Fal.    I  do  begin  to  perceive  that   I  am   made 
an  ass. 

Ford.  Ay,  and  an  ox  too ;  both  the  proofs  are 
extant. 

Fal.  And  these  are  not  fairies  ?  I  was  three  01 
four  times  in  the  thought,  they  were  not  fairies  :  and 
yet  the  guiltiness  of  my  mind,  the  sudden  surprise 
of  my  powers,  drove  the  grossness  of  the  foppery 
into  a  receiv'd  belief,  in  despite  of  the  teeth  of  all 
rhyme  and  reason,  that  they  were  fairies.  See  now, 
how  wit  may  be  made  a  Jack-a-lent,  when  'tis  upon 
ill  employment  ! 

Eva.  Sir  John  Falstaff,  serve  Got,  and  leave  youi 
desires,  and  fairies  will  not  pinse  you. 

Ford.  Well  said,  fairy  Hugh. 

Eva.  And  leave  you  your  jealousies  too,  I  pray 
you. 

Ford.  I  will  never  mistrust  my  wife  again,  till 
thou  art  able  to  woo  her  in  good  English. 

Fal.  Have  I  laid  my  brain  in  the  sun,  and  dried 
it,  that  it  wants  matter  to  prevent  so  gross  o'er- 
reaching  as  this  ?  Am  I  ridden  with  a  Welch  goat 
too  1  Shall  I  have  a  coxcomb  of  frize  1 18  'Tis  time 
I  were  chok'd  with  a  piece  of  toasted  cheese. 

Eva.  Seese  is  not  good  to  give  putter :  your  pelly 
is  all  putter. 

Fal.  Seese  and  putter !  Have  I  lived  to  stand  at 
the  taunt  of  one  that  makes  fritters  of  English  1 

18  That  is,  a  fool  s  cap  made  out  of  Welch  materials.  \V  t  Is; 
was  famous  for  this  cloth. 


326  MERRY    WIVES  AC1    V 

This  is  enough  to  be  the  decay  of  lust  and  late 
walking  through  the  realm. 

Mrs.  Page.  Why,  Sir  John,  do  you  think,  though 
we  would  have  thrust  virtue  out  of  our  hearts  b) 
the  head  and  shoulders,  and  have  given  ourselves 
without  scruple  to  hell,  that  ever  the  devil  could 
have  made  you  our  delight  ? 

Ford.  What !  a  hodge-pudding  ?  a  bag  of  flax  ? 

Mrs.  Page.  A  puff'd  man  ? 

Page.  Old,  cold,  wither'd,  and  of  intolerable 
entrails  ? 

Ford.  And  one  that  is  as  slanderous  as  Satan  1 

Page.  And  as  poor  as  Job  1 

Ford.  And  as  wicked  as  his  wife  ? 

Eva.  And  given  to  fornications,  and  to  taverns,  and 
sack,  and  wine,  and  metheglins,  and  to  drinkings, 
and  swearings,  and  starings,  pribbles  and  prabbles  ? 

Fal.  Well,  I  am  your  theme :  you  have  the  start 
of  me  ;  I  am  dejected  ;  I  am  not  able  to  answer  the 
Welch  flannel :  n  Ignorance  itself  is  a  plummet  o'er 
me  : 18  use  me  as  you  will. 

Ford.  Marry,  sir,  we'll  bring  you  to  Windsor,  to 
one  master  Brook,  that  you  have  cozen'd  of  money, 
to  whom  you  should  have  been  a  pander :  over  and 
above  that  you  have  suffer'd,  I  think,  to  repay  that 
money  will  be  a  biting  affliction.18 

17  The  very  word  flannel  is  derived  from  a  Welch  one,  and  it 
is  almost  unnecessary  to  add  that  it  was  originally  the  manufac- 
ture of  Wales. 

19  Ignorance  itself  weighs  me  down,  and  oppresses  me. 

19  After  this  speech  the  following  is  usually  added  from  the 
quartos : 

«  Mrs.  Ford.  Nay,  husband,  let  that  go  to  make  amends  t 
Forgive  that  sum,  and  so  we'll  all  be  friends. 

Ford.  Well,  here's  my  hand ;  all's  forgiven  at  last." 

Those  who  have  taken  this  from  the  quartos  have  not  told  us  whj 
they  left  out  some  other  mp.Uer  that  is  equally  there.  H. 


SC.  V.  OF    WINDSOR.  327 

Page.  Yet  be  cheerful,  knight :  thou  shah  eat  a 
posset  to-night  at  my  house  ;  where  I  will  desire  thee 
to  laugh  at  my  wife,  that  now  laughs  at  thee :  Tell 
her,  master  Slender  hath  married  her  daughter. 

Mrs.  Page.  [Aside.]  Doctors  douht  that :  If  Anne 
Page  be  my  daughter,  she  is,  by  this,  doctor  Caius' 
wife. 

Enter  SLENDER. 

Slen.  Whoo  !  ho !  ho  !  father  Page  ! 

Page.  Son!  how  now  ?  how  now,  son?  have  you 
despatch'd  1 

Slen.  Despatch'd  !  —  I'll  make  the  best  in  Glou- 
cestershire know  on't ;  would  I  were  hang'd,  la,  else. 

Page.  Of  what,  son  ? 

Slen.  I  came  yonder  at  Eton  to  marry  mistress 
Anne  Page,  and  she's  a  great  lubberly  boy.  If  it 
had  not  been  i'  the  church,  I  would  have  swing'd 
him,  or  he  should  have  swing'd  me.  If  I  did  not 
think  it  had  been  Anne  Page,  would  I  might  never 
stir ;  and  'tis  a  post-master's  boy. 

Page.  Upon  my  life,  then,  you  took  the  wrong. 

Slen.  What  need  you  tell  me  that  1  I  think  so, 
when  I  took  a  boy  for  a  girl :  If  I  had  been  mar- 
ried to  him,  for  all  he  was  in  woman's  apparel,  I 
would  not  have  had  him. 

Page.  Why,  this  is  your  own  folly.  Did  not  1 
tell  you,  how  you  should  know  my  daughter  by  her 
garments  ? 

Slen.  I  went  to  her  in  white,  and  cried  "  mum,'1 
and  she  cried  "  budget,"  as  Anne  and  I  had  appointed ; 
and  yet  it  was  not  Anne,  but  a  post-master's  boy.20 

*°  Here,  again,  we  commonly  have  the  following  thrust  in  from 
the  quartos : 

«  Eva.  Jeshu!  master  Slender,  cannot  yoa  see  but  marrj 
boys? 

Page.    O.  I  am  vex'd  at  heart !    Whai  shall  I  do  T  "  B 


328  MERR7    WIVES  ACT  V 

Mrs.  Page.  Good  George,  be  not  angry  :  I  knew 
of  your  purpose ;  turn'd  my  daughter  -nto  green ; 
arid,  indeed,  she  is  now  with  the  doctor  at  the 
deanery,  and  there  married. 

Enter  CAIUS. 

Caius.  Vere  is  mistress  Page  ?  By  gar,  I  am 
cozened :  I  ha'  married  un  gar  pan,  a  boy ;  un  paisan, 
by  gar,  a  boy ;  it  is  not  Anne  Page  :  by  gar,  1 
am  cozened. 

Mrs.  Page.  Why,  did  you  take  her  in  green  ? 

Caius.  Ay,  be  gar,  and  'tis  a  boy :  be  gar,  I'll 
raise  all  Windsor.  [Exit  CAIUS. 

Ford.  This  is  strange !  Who  hath  got  the  right 
Anne? 

Page.  My  heart  misgives  me :  Here  comes  mas- 
ter Fenton. 

Enter  FENTON  and  ANNE  PAGE. 

How  now,  master  Fenton? 

Anne.    Pardon,   good  father !  good  my  mother, 
p  »rdon  ! 

Page.  Now,  mistress  !  how  chance  you  went  not 
with  master  Slender  ? 

Mrs.  Page.  Why  went  you  not  with  master  doc- 
tor, maid  ? 

Pent.  You  do  amaze  21  her  :  Hear  the  truth  of  it 
You  would  have  married  her  most  shamefully, 
Where  there  was  no  proportion  held  in  love. 
The  truth  is,  she  and  I,  long  since  contracted, 
Are  now  so  sure  that  nothing  can  dissolve  us. 
The  offence  is  holy  that  she  hath  committed : 
And  this  deceit  loses  the  name  of  craft, 

11  Confound  her  by  your  questions. 


»C.  V  OF    WINDSOR.  3&» 

Of  disobedience,  or  unduteous  guile ; 

Since  therein  she  doth  evitate  22  and  shun 

A  thousand  irreligious  cursed  hours, 

Which  forced  marriage  would  have  brought  upon  her. 

Ford.  Stand  not  amaz'd  :  here  is  no  remedy.  — 
fn  love,  the  heavens  themselves  do  guide  the  state : 
Money  buys  lands,  and  wives  are  sold  by  fate. 

Fed.  \  am  glad,  though  you  have  ta'en  a  special 
rtand  to  strike  at  me,  that  your  arrow  hath  glanc'd. 

Page.  Well,  what  remedy  ?    Fenton,  heaven  give 

thee  joy ! 
What  cannot  be  eschew'd,  must  be  embrac'd. 

Fed.    When  night-dogs  run,  all  sorts  of  deer  are 
chas'd.23 

Mrs.  Page.  Well,  I  will  muse  no  further :  —  mu.*- 

ter  Featon, 

Heaven  give  you  many,  many  merry  days ! 
Good  husband,  let  us  every  one  go  home, 
And  laugh  this  sport  o'er  by  a  country  fire  ; 
Sir  John  and  all. 

Ford.  Let  it  be  so :  —  Sir  John, 

To  master  Brook  you  yet  shall  hold  your  word , 
For  he  to-night  shall  he  with  mistress  Ford.  [Exeunt. 

**  Avoid. 

13  Here,  too,  we  commonly  have  a  Hue  added  from  the  quartos 
"  Eva.  I  will  dance  and  eat  plums  at  your  wedding." 
It  is  questionable  whether  these  passages,  evidently  either  not 
written  by  the  Poet,  or  else  thrown  out  in  the  revisal,  ought  to 
bave  a  place  even  in  the  notes.  H. 


(330; 


THE  PASSIONATE  SHEPHERD  TO  HIS  LOVE. 

BT   CHRISTOPHER   MARLOWE. 
HBVEBHXD  TO  in  THE  MERRY  WIVES  OF  WINDSCB,  Anr  in    So,   i. ( 

COME  live  with  me,  and  be  my  love, 
And  we  will  all  the  pleasures  prove 
That  vallies,  groves,  and  hills  and  field, 
Or  woods  and  steepy  mountains  yield. 

Where  we  will  sit  upon  the  rocks, 
And  see  the  shepherds  feed  their  flocks, 
By  shallow  rivers,  to  whose  falls 
Melodious  birds  sing  madrigals. 

And  I  will  make  thee  beds  of  roses, 
And  a  thousand  fragrant  posies ; 
A  cap  of  flowers,  and  a  kirtle, 
Embroider'd  all  with  leaves  of  myrtle 

A  gown  made  of  the  finest  wool, 
Which  from  our  pretty  lambs  we  pull ; 
Fair  lined  slippers  for  the  cold. 
With  buckles  of  the  purest  gold : 

A  belt  of  straw  and  ivy  buds, 
With  coral  clasps  and  amber  studs ; 
And  if  these  pleasures  may  thee  move, 
Come  live  with  me,  and  be  my  love. 

The  shepherd  swains  shall  dance  and  sing 
For  thy  delight,  each  May-morning : 
If  these  delights  thy  mind  may  move, 
Then  live  with  me,  and  be  my  love. 


(331) 


THE    NYMPH'S    REPLY 

FT    SIR    WALTER    RALEIGH. 

IT  all  the  world  and  love  were  young, 
And  truth  in  every  shepherd's  tongue, 
These  pretty  pleasures  might  me  move 
To  live  with  thee,  and  be  thy  love. 

But  time  drives  flocks  from  field  to  fold 
When  rivers  rage,  and  rocks  grow  cold, 
Then  Philomel  becometh  dumb, 
And  age  complains  of  cares  to  come. 

The  flowers  do  fade,  and  wanton  fields 
To  wayward  winter  reckoning  yields ; 
A  honey  tongue,  a  heart  of  gall, 
Is  fancy's  spring,  but  sorrow's  fall. 

Thy  gowns,  thy  shoes,  thy  beds  of  roses 
Thy  cap,  thy  kirtle,  and  thy  posies, 
Soon  break,  soon  wither,  soon  forgotten, 
In  folly  ripe,  in  reason  rotten. 

Thy  belt  of  straw  and  ivy-buds, 
Thy  coral  clasps  and  amber  studs, 
All  these  in  me  no  means  can  move 
To  come  to  thee,  and  be  thy  love. 

But  could  youth  last  and  love  still  breed, 
Had  joys  110  date,  nor  age  no  need, 
Then  these  delights  my  mind  might  move 
To  live  with  thee,  and  be  thy  love. 


INTRODUCTION 


TWELFTH  NIGHT,  OR  WHAT  YOU  WILL 


TWELFTH  NIGHT,  OR  WHAT  You  WILL,  originally  ap- 
peared in  the  folio  of  1623,  being  the  thirteenth  in  the  list  of  Com- 
edies. We  keep  to  the  order  of  the  Chiswick  edition,  not  so 
much  because  of  any  reason  for  it,  as  because  we  can  discover  no 
good  reason  for  departing  from  it.  The  arrangement  of  the  first 
edition  seems  preferable,  simply  as  being  the  first ;  but  the  change, 
though  made  capriciously,  may  as  well  stand,  till  something  bettei 
than  caprice  plead  for  restoration. 

In  default  of  positive  information,  Twelfth  Night  was  for  a  long 
time  set  down  as  among  the  last-written  of  our  author's  plays. 
This  opinion  was  based  upon  such  slight  indications  gathered  from 
the  work  itself,  as  could  have  no  weight  but  in  the  absence  of  other 
proofs.  For  example,  the  word  undertaker  occurs  in  the  play ; 
therefore  Tyrwhitt  dated  the  writing  of  it  in  1614,  because  the 
term  was  that  year  applied  to  certain  men  who  undertook  to  carry 
matters  in  Parliament  according  to  the  King's  liking ;  their  arts 
and  methods  probably  being  much  the  same  as  are  used  by  the 
lobby  members  of  American  legislatures  :  from  which  Mr.  Ver 
planck  very  naturally  infers  that  some  of  the  Anglo-Saxon  blood 
still  runs  in  the  veins  of  our  republic.  Chalmers,  however,  sup 
posing  that  reference  was  had  to  the  undertakers  for  colonizing 
Ulster  in  1613,  assigned  the  play  to  that  year;  and  was  confirmed 
therein  by  the  Poet's  use  of  the  term  Sophy,  because  the  same  yea> 
Sir  Anthony  Shirley  published  his  Travels,  wherein  something  w? 
said  about  the  Sophy  of  Persia.  Perhaps  *t  did  not  occur  to  either 
of  these  men  that  Shakespeare  might  have  taken  up  the  former 
word  from  its  general  use  and  meaning,  not  from  any  special  ap- 
plications of  it ;  these  being  apt  to  infer  that  it  was  already  under- 
stood. Malone  at  first  fixed  upon  1614,  but  afterwards  changrJ 
it  to  1607,  because  the  play  contains  the  expression,  "  westvi»»4 
hot; !  "  and  Dekker's  comedy  entitled  Westward-Hoe  cam*  out 


386       TWELFTH    NIGHT,   OR    WHAT    YOU    WILL.. 

that  year;  thus  assuming  that  the  play  gave  currency  to  the 
phrase,  instead  of  b»>ing  so  named  because  the  phrase  was  already 
jommon.  Several  other  arguments  of  like  sort  were  urged  in 
favour  of  this  or  that  date,  —  arguments  for  which  the  best  apol- 
ogy is.  that  the  authors  had  nothing  better  to  build  conjecture  upon. 

All  these  inferences  have  been  set  aside,  and  their  weakness 
ihown,  by  a  recent  discovery.  In  1828  Mr.  Collier,  while  delving 
in  the  "  musty  records  of  antiquity  "  stored  away  in  the  Museum,  — 
a  work  not  more  toilsome  to  him  than  gratifying  to  us,  —  met  with 
the  following  memorandum  in  a  Diary  preserved  among  the  Har 
ieian  Manuscripts : 

"  Feb.  2,  1602.  At  our  feast  we  had  a  play  called  Twelve 
triglU  or  what  you  will,  much  like  the  Comedy  of  Errors,  or 
Menechmi  in  Plautus,  but  most  like  and  near  to  that  in  Italian 
called  Inganni.  A  good  practice  in  it  to  make  the  steward  be- 
lieve his  lady  widow  was  in  love  with  him,  by  counterfeiting  a 
letter,  as  from  his  lady,  in  general  terms  telling  him  what  she  liked 
best  in  him,  and  prescribing  his  gestures,  his  apparel,  &.c.,  and 
then  when  he  came  to  practise,  making  him  believe  they  took  him 
to  be  mad." 

The  authorship  of  the  Diary  containing  this  precious  item  was 
unknown  to  Mr.  Collier,  till  the  Rev.  Joseph  Hunter  ascertained 
it  to  be  the  work  of  John  Manning-ham,  a  barrister  who  was  en- 
tered at  the  Middle  Temple  in  1597.  The  occasion  of  the  per- 
formance thus  noted  down  by  Manningham  was  the  feast  of  the 
Purification,  anciently  called  Candlemas  ;  —  an  important  link  in 
the  course  of  festivities  that  used  to  continue  from  Christmas  to 
Shrovetide.  It  would  seem  that  the  benchers  and  members  of  the 
several  Inns  were  wont  to  enrich  their  convivialities  with  a  course 
of  wit  and  poetry.  And  the  glorious  old  Temple  is  yet  standing, 
where  one  of  Shakespeare's  sweetest  plays  was  enjoyed  by  his 
contemporaries,  at  a  time  when  this  annual  jubilee  had  rendered 
their  minds  congenial  and  apt,  and  when  Christians  have  so  much 
cause  to  be  happy  and  gentle  and  kind,  and  therefore  to  cherish  the 
convivial  delectations  whence  kindness  and  happiness  naturally 
grow.  It  scarce  need  be  said  that  a  new  grace  is  added  to  that 
ancient  and  venerable  structure  by  this  relic  of  John  Manningham, 
whom  a  few  strokes  of  the  pen  have  rendered  immortal  so  long 
after  all  other  memorials  of  him  had  been  swept  away. 

Twelfth  Night,  therefore,  was  unquestionably  written  before 
1602.  That  it  was  not  written  before  1598,  is  probable  from  its 
not  being  spoken  of  in  Meres'  Palladia  Tamia,  which  came  oul 
that  year.  This  probability  is  heightened  almost  to  certainty  by 
what  Maria  says  of  Malvolio  in  his  ludicrous  beatitude  :  "  He 
does  smile  his  face  into  more  lines  than  are  in  the  new  map,  with 
the  augmentation  of  the  Indies ;  "  which  is  evidently  an  allusion  tr 
some  contemporary  matter,  and  was  so  regarded  before  the  daw 
of  any  such  mulfilineal  map  was  known.  It  is  now  ascertained 


INTRODUCTION.  337 

Uiat  an  English  version  of  Linschoten's  Discourse  of  Voy;ige<); 
containing  a  map  exactly  answering  to  Maria's  description,  was 
published  in  1598.  The  allusion  can  hardly  be  to  any  thing  else; 
and  the  words  new  map  would  seem  to  infer  that  the  passage  was 
written  not  long  after  the  appearance  of  the  map  in  question. 
Dr.  Ulrici  and  other  German  critics,  thinking  Twelfth  Night  to  be 
glanced  at  in  Ben  Jonson's  Every  Man  out  of  His  Humour,  which 
was  first  acted  in  1599,  of  course  conclude  the  former  play  to  have 
been  made  before  that  date.  But  we  can  discover  nothing  in 
Jonson's  play,  that  may  be  fairly  construed  as  an  allusion  to 
Twelfth  Night. 

On  the  other  hand,  there  is  good  reason  for  thinking  that  the 
play  was  not  made  before  1600.  For  on  the  22d  of  June  thaj 
year  the  Privy  Council  issued  an  order  laying  very  severe  restric- 
tions upon  stage  performances.  After  prescribing  "  that  there 
shall  be  about  the  city  two  houses  and  no  more,  allowed  to  serve 
foi  U.e  use  of  common  stage  plays  ;  of  the  which  houses,  one  shall 
be  in  Surrey,  in  the  place  commonly  called  The  Bankside,  or 
thereabouts,  and  the  other  in  Middlesex ; "  the  order  runs  thus  : 
•'  Forasmuch  as  these  stage  plays,  by  the  multitude  of  houses  and 
company  of  players,  have  been  so  frequent,  not  serving  for  recre- 
ation, but  inviting  and  calling  the  people  daily  from  their  trade 
and  work  to  misspend  their  time ;  it  is  likewise  ordered,  that  the 
two  several  companies  of  players,  assigned  unto  the  two  houses 
allowed,  may  play  each  of  them  in  their  several  houses  twice  a 
week,  and  no  oftener :  and  especially  tney  shall  refrain  to  play  on 
the  Sabbath  day,  upon  pain  of  imprisonment  and  further  penalty. 
And  they  shall  forbear  altogether  in  the  time  of  Lent,  and  likewise 
at  such  time  and  times  as  any  extraordinary  sickness,  or  infection 
of  disease,  shall  appear  to  be  in  or  about  the  city."  This  paper 
was  directed  to  the  Lord  Mayor  and  the  Justices  of  Middlesex 
and  Surrey,  "  strictly  charging  them  to  see  to  the  execution  of  the 
same ;  "  and  it  is  plain,  that  if  rigidly  enforced  it  would  have 
amounted  almost  to  a  total  suppression  of  play-houses,  as  the 
expenses  of  such  establishments  could  hardly  have  been  met,  in 
the  face  of  so  great  drawbacks. 

In  Twelfth  Night,  Act  iii.  sc.  1,  the  Clown  says  to  Viola, — 
Rut,  indeed,  words  are  very  rascals,  since  bonds  disgraced  them  5 " 
which  strikes  us  as  a  probable  allusion  to  the  forecited  order.  More- 
over, the  Puritans  were  especially  forward  and  zealous  in  urging 
the  comnlaiuts  which  put  the  Privy  Council  upon  issuing  this 
•tringent  process  ;  an.J  it  will  hardly  be  disputed  th\t  '.he  char- 
acter of  Malvolio  was  meant  as  a  satire  upon  the  virtues  of  that 
extraordinary  people.  /That  the  Poet  should  be  somewhat  pro 
yoked  by  their  instrumentality  in  bringing  about  such  tight  re 
strain Is  upon  the  freedom  of  his  art,  was  certainly  natural  enough. 
And  surely  it  is  no  slight  addition  to  their  many  claims  on  oui 
gratitude,  that  their  characteristic  violence  against  the  liberty  of 


£J8       TWELFTH    NIGHT,   OR    WHAT    YOU    WILL. 

others,  and  their  Innate  aptness  to  think,  "  because  they  were  vir 
luous,  there  should  be  no  more  cakes  and  ale,"  called  forth  so  rirli 
and  withal  so  good-natured  a  piece  of  retaliation.  And  it  is  a 
considerable  instance  of  the  Poet's  equanimity,  that  he  dealt  so 
fairly  by  them  notwithstanding  their  vexatious  assaults,  being 
content  merely  to  play  off  upon  them  the  divine  witchcraft  of  his 
genius.  Perhaps  it  should  be  remarked,  that  the  order  in  ques- 
tion, though  solicited  by  the  authorities  of  the  city,  was  not  en- 
forced ;  for  even  at  this  early  date  those  righteous  magistrates  had 
hit  upon  the  method,  which  they  afterwards  plied  with  such  fatal 
success,  of  stimulating  the  complaints  of  discontented  citizens,  till 
orders  were  taken  to  remove  the  alleged  grievances,  and  then 
letting  such  orders  sleep,  lest  the  enforcing  thereof  should  hust 
taose  complaints,  and  thus  lose  them  their  cherished  opportunities 
of  annoying  the  Government. 

The  critics  all  agree  that  some  outlines  of  the  serious  portioi. 
of  Twelfth  Night  were  drawn,  directly  or  indirectly,  from  the  Ital- 
ian of  Bandello.  Several  intermediate  sources  have  been  pointed 
out,  to  which  the  Poet  may  have  gone ;  and  among  them  the 
English  of  Barnabe  Rich,  and  the  French  of  Belleforest,  either  of 
which  might  well  enough  have  been  the  true  one.  Besides  these, 
two  Italian  plays  have  lately  been  discovered,  severally  entitled 
CrV  Inganni  and  GV  Ingannati,  both  also  founded  upon  Bandello 
though  differing  considerably  from  each  other.  From  the  way 
Manuiugham  speaks,  it  would  seem  that  GU  Inganni  was  gener- 
ally regarded  at  the  time  as  the  original  of  so  much  of  Twelfth 
Night  as  was  borrowed  :  yet  the  play  has  less  of  resemblance 
to  this  than  to  any  of  the  other  sources  mentioned.  The  point 
however,  where  they  all  agree,  is  in  having  a  brother  and  sister  so 
much  alike  in  person  and  habit  as  to  be  indistinguishable ;  upon 
which  some  of  the  main  incidents  are  made  to  turn.  In  Gl'  In- 
gannati there  is  the  further  resemblance  that  Lelia,  the  heroine,  in 
the  disguise  of  a  page  serves  Flammiiiio,  with  whom  she  is  in  love, 
but  who  is  in  love  with  a  lady  named  Isabella  ;  and  that  Flamminio 
employs  Lelia  to  plead  his  cause  with  Isabella.  Mr.  Collier  thinks 
it  cannot  be  said  with  any  certainty,  that  Shakespeare  resorted 
to  either  of  the  Italian  plays,  though  he  may  have  read  both 
while  considering  the  best  mode  of  adapting  to  the  stage  the  inci- 
dents of  Baiidello's  novel.  As  the  leading  points  which  they  have 
in  common  with  Shakespeare  arc  much  the  same  in  all  the  authors 
in  question,  perhaps  we  cannot  do  better  than  to  give  an  outline 
01  brief  abstract  of  the  tale  as  told  by  Barnabe  Rich ;  from  which 
a  pretty  fair  estimate  of  the  Poet's  obligations  may  be  easily 
made  out.  The  events  of  the  story,  as  will  be  seen,  are  supposeo 
to  have  taken  place  before  Constantinople  fell  into  the  hands  of 
the  Turks. 

A  certain  duke,  named  Apolonius,  had  served  a  year  in  the 
wars  against  die  Turk.  Returning  homewards  by  sea,  he  wis 


INTRODUCTION.  339 

driven  by  stress  of  weather  to  the  isle  of  Cyprus,  whore  he  was 
well  received  by  Pontus  the  governor,  whose  daughter  Silla  fell  so 
deeply  in  love  with  him,  that  alter  his  departure  to  Constantinople 
she  forsook  home  in  pursuit  of  him,  having  persuaded  her  man 
Pedro  to  go  along  with  her.  For  security  against  such  perils  and 
injuries  as  are  apt  to  befall  young  ladies  in  her  situation,  she  as 
sumed  the  dress  and  name  of  her  brother  Silvio,  who  was  absent 
from  home  when  she  left.  Coming  to  Const:intinople  she  inquired 
out  the  residence  of  Apolonius,  and  presented  herself  before  him. 
craving  to  be  his  servant;  and  he,  being  well  disposed  towards 
strangers  and  liking  her  appearance,  took  her  into  his  service. 
Her  smooth  and  gentle  behaviour  soon  won  his  confidence,  and 
her  happy  diligence  in  waiting  upon  him  caused  her  to  be  ad- 
vanced above  all  the  rest  of  his  servants  in  credit  and  trust. 

At  this  time  there  dwelt  in  the  city  a  lady  widow  named  Jul/r.a, 
whose  husband  had  lately  died,  leaving  her  large  possessions  ar.d 
rich  livings,  and  who,  moreover,  surpassed  all  the  ladies  of  Con- 
stantinople in  beauty.  Her  attractions  of  course  proved  too 
much  for  the  Duke :  he  became  an  earnest  suitor  to  the  lady,  and 
employed  his  new  servant  to  carry  his  love-tokens  and  forward 
his  suit.  Thus,  besides  her  other  afflictions,  this  piece  of  disguised 
sweetness  had  to  endure  the  greater  one  of  being  the  instrument 
to  work  her  own  mishap,  and  of  playing  the  attorney  in  a  cause 
that  made  against  herself:  nevertheless,  being  altogether  desirous 
to  please  her  master,  and  caring  nothing  at  all  to  offend  herself, 
she  urged  his  suit  with  as  much  zeal  as  if  it  had  been  her  own 
preferment.  But  'twas  not  long  till  Silla's  sweetness  stole  through 
her  disguise  right  into  the  heart  of  the  lady  Julina,  who  at  length 
got  so  entangled  with  the  often  sight  of  this  sweet  temptation,  that 
she  fell  as  much  in  love  with  the  servant  as  the  master  was  with 
herself.  Thus  things  went  on,  till  one  day  Silla,  being  sent  witb 
a  message  to  the  lady,  began  to  solicit  very  warmly  for  the  Duke, 
when  Julina  interrupted  her,  saying,  —  Silvio,  it  is  enough  thai 
you  have  said  for  your  master  :  henceforth  either  speak  for  your  • 
self,  or  say  nothing  at  all. 

Meanwhile  Silla's  brother,  the  right  Silvio  indeed,  had  returned 
home  to  Cyprus  ;  and  was  much  grieved  to  find  her  missing, 
whom  he  loved  the  more  tenderly  for  that,  besides  being  his  own 
lister,  she  was  so  like  him  in  person  and  feature  that  no  one  could 
distinguish  them,  save  by  their  apparel.  Learning  how  she  had 
disappeared,  and  supposing  that  Pedro  had  seduced  and  stolen 
Her  away,  he  vowed  to  his  father  that  he  would  not  only  seek  oul 
his  sister,  but  take  revenge  on  the  servant.  In  this  mind  he 
departed,  and,  after  seeking  through  many  towns  and  cities  iu 
vain,  arrived  at  Constantinople.  One  evening,  as  he  was  walking 
for  recreation  on  a  pleasant  green  without  the  walls  of  the  city, 
he  chanced  to  meet  the  lady  Julina,  who  had  also  gone  forth  to 
take  the  air.  Casting  her  eyes  upon  Silvio,  and  thinking'  hem  W 


340       TWELFTH    NIGHT,   OR    WHAT    YOU    WILL. 

He  the  messenger  that  had  so  often  done  enchantment  upon  her, 
she  drew  him  aside,  and  soon  courted  him  into  a  successful  court- 
ship of  herself.  Of  course  she  was  not  long  in  getting  tied  up 
beyond  the  Duke's  hope.  Now  Apolonius  had  already  con 
ceived  such  a  tender  friendship  for  his  gentle  page  as  always 
makes  the  better  part  of  a  genuine  love.  The  appearance  of  Silla's 
brothei  forthwith  brings  about  a  full  disclosure  what  and  who  she 
is ;  whereupon  the  Duke,  seeing  the  lady  widow  now  quite  beyond 
his  reach,  and  learning  what  precious  riches  are  already  his  in  the 
form  of  a  serving-man,  transfers  his  heart  to  Silla,  and  takes  her 
to  his  bosom. 

The  story  of  Apolonius  and  Silla,  which  was  evidently  made 
from  the  matter  of  Bandello's  Nicuola,  is  in  a  collection  entitled 
Rich's  Farewell  to  The  Military  Profession,  which  was  originally 
published  somewhere  between  1578  and  1581,  and  re-issued  in 
1606 ; —  a  book,  says  Rich,  "  containing  very  pleasant  discourses 
fit  for  a  peaceable  time,  and  gathered  together  for  the  only  delight 
of  the  courteous  gentlewomen  of  England  and  Ireland."  Whether 
Shakespeare  drew  directly  from  this  source  is  very  doubtful,  there 
being  no  verbal  resemblances  whereby  such  obligations  may  usu- 
ally be  traced.  Mr.  Collier  thinks  there  might  be  in  Shakespeare's 
time  some  version  of  Bandello  more  like  the  original  than  that 
made  by  Rich ;  and  that,  whether  there  were  or  not,  the  Poet  may 
have  gone  to  the  Italian  story,  since  Le  Noodle,  di  Bandello  were 
very  well  known  in  England  as  early  as  about  the  middle  of  the 
sixteenth  century.  It  is  observable  that  the  lady  Julina  of  Rich's 
novel,  who  answers  to  the  Olivia  of  Twelfth  Night,  is  a  widow ; 
and  that  Manningham  speaks  of  Olivia  as  a  "  widow."  Which 
suggests  that  she  may  have  been  so  represented  in  the  play  as 
acted  at  the  Readers'  Feast  in  1602 ;  the  Poet  afterwards  making 
the  change :  but  it  seems  more  likely  that  the  barrister's  recollec- 
tions of  Julina  got  mixed  up  with  his  impression  of  Olivia ;  the 
similarity  of  the  stories  being  apt  enough  to  generate  such  a 
confusion. 

Thus  it  appears  that  the  most  objectionable,  or  rather  the  least 
admirable  points  in  Twelfth  Night  are  precisely  those  which  were 
least  original  with  the  Poet ;  they  being  already  familiar  to  ins 
audience,  and  recommended  to  his  use  by  the  popular  literaturu 
of  the  time.  Nor  is  it  to  be  overlooked  that  his  borrowings  relate 
only  to  the  plot  of  the  work,  the  poetry  and  character  being  all 
his  own  5  and  that,  here  as  elsewhere,  he  used  what  he  took 
merely  as  the  canvas  whereon  to  pencil  out  and  express  the 
breathing  creatures  of  his  mind.  As  to  the  comic  portion,  there 
is  no  pretence  that  any  hints  or  traces  of  it  are  to  be  found  in  any 
preceding  writer. 

Mr.  Knight  justly  remarks  upon  the  singularly  composite  soci- 
ety here  delineated,  that  while  the  period  of  action  is  undefined 
and  the  scene  laid  in  Illyria,  the  names  of  the  persons  are  a  nvx 


INTRODUCTION.  IJ41 

lurt  of  Spanish.  Italian,  and  English.  And  the  discrepancies 
thence  arising  he  thinks  may  he  best  made  up,  by  supposing  Duke 
Orsino  to  oe  a  Venetian  governor  of  so  much  of  ancient  Illyria  as 
remained  subject  to  Venice  at  the  beginning  of  the  seventeenth 
century ;  his  attendants,  Valentine,  Curio,  &c.,  as  well  as  Olivia, 
Malvolio,  and  Maria,  being  also  Venetians  :  and  Sir  Toby  and 
Sir  Andrew  to  be  English  residents ;  the  former,  a  maternal  uncle 
to  Olivia,  —  her  father,  a  Venetian  count,  having  married  his 
sister. 

This  discrepancy  in  the  grouping  of  the  persons,  whether  so  in- 
tended or  not,  very  well  accords  with  the  spirit  in  which,  or  the 
occasion  for  which,  the  title  indicates  the  play  to  have  been  written. 
Twelfth  Day.  anciently  so  called  as  being  the  twelfth  after  Christ- 
mas, is  the  day  whereon  the  Church  has  always  kept  the  feast  of 
"  The  Epiphany,  or  the  Manifestation  of  Christ  to  the  Gentiles." 
by  the  miraculous  leading  of  a  star.  So  that,  in  preparing  a 
Twelfth-Night  entertainment  the  idea  of  fitness  might  aptly  suggest, 
that  national  lines  and  distinctions  should  be  lost  in  the  para- 
mount ties  of  a  common  Religion :  and  that  people  the  most 
diverse  in  kindred  and  tongue  should  draw  together  in  the  senti- 
ment of  One  Lord,  One  Faith,  One  Baptism ;  their  social  mirth 
being  thus  seasoned  with  a  spicery  of  heaven,  and  relishing  of 
universal  brotherhood. 

The  general  scope  and  plan  of  Twelfth  Night,  a*  a  work  of  art, 
is  wisely  hinted  in  its  second  title :  all  the  comic  elements  being, 
as  it  were,  thrown  out  simultaneously  and  held  in  a  sort  of  eq«i 
poise,  thus  leaving  the  readers  to  fix  the  preponderance  where 
will  best  suit  their  several  bent  or  state  of  mind ;  so  that  within 
certain  limits  and  conditions  each  may  take  the  work  in  ichai 
sense  lie  will.  For  where  no  special  prominence  is  given  to  one 
thing,  there  must  needs  be  wide  scope  for  individual  aptitudes  and 
inclinations,  and  great  freedom  for  every  one  to  select  for  virtual 
prominence  such  parts  as  best  express  or  knit  in  with  what  is  up- 
permost in  his  thoughts. 

Taking  another  view  of  Twelfth  Night  in  the  light  of  the  same 
principle,  the  significancy  of  the  title  is  further  traceable  in  a  pe- 
culiar spontaneousness  running  though  the  play.  Replete  as  it  is 
with  humours  and  oddities,  they  all  seem  to  spring  up  of  their  own 
accord ;  the  comic  characters  being  free  alike  from  disguises  and 
pretensions,  and  seeking  merely  to  let  off  their  inward  redundancy ; 
caring  not  at  all  whether  every  body  or  nobody  sees  them,  so 
they  may  have  their  whim  out,  and  giving  utterance  to  folly  and 
nonsense  simply  because  they  cannot  help  it.  Thus  their  very 
deformities  have  a  certain  grace,  since  they  are  genuine  and  of 
nature's  planting :  absurdity  and  whimsicality  are  indigenous  u» 
the  soil,  and  shoot  up  in  free,  happy  luxuriance,  from  the  life  tA<*» 
is  in  them.  And  by  thus  setting  the  characters  out  in  their  h«->- 
piest  aspects,  the  Poet  contrives  to  make  them  simply  ludicr.  41 


342       TWELFTH    NIGHT,    OR    WHAT    YOU    WILL. 

and  diverting,  instead  of  putting  upon  them  the  construction  of 
wit  or  spleen,  and  thereby  making  them  ridiculous  or  coiitempti 
Die.  Hence  it  is  that  we  so  readily  enter  into  a  sort  of  fellowship 
with  them  ;  their  foibles  and  follies  being  shown  up  in  such  a  spirit 
of  good  humour  that  the  subjects  themselves  would  rather  join 
with  us  in  laughing,  than  be  angered  or  hurt  by  the  exhibition. 
Moreover,  the  high  and  the  low  are  here  seen  moving  in  free  and 
familiar  intercourse,  without  any  apparent  consciousness  of  their 
respective  ranks  :  the  humours  and  comicalities  of  the  play  keep 
running  and  frisking  in  among  the  serious  parts,  to  their  mutual 
advantage ;  the  connection  between  them  being  of  a  kind  to  be 
felt,  not  described. 

Thus  the  piece  overflows  with  the  genial,  free-and-easy  spirit 
of  a  merry  Twelfth  Night.  Chance,  caprice,  and  intrigue,  it  is 
true,  are  brought  together  in  about  equal  portions ;  and  their 
meeting,  and  crossing,  and  mutual  tripping,  cause  a  deal  of  per- 
plexity and  confusion,  defeating  the  hopes  of  some,  suspending 
those  of  .others  :  yet  here,  as  is  often  the  case  in  actual  life,  from 
this  conflict  of  opposites  order  and  happiness  spring  up  as  the  final 
result :  if  what  we  call  accident  thwart  one  cherished  purpose,  it 
draws  on  something  better ;  blighting  a  full-blown  expectation 
now,  to  help  the  blossoming  of  a  nobler  one  hereafter :  and  it  so 
happens  in  the  end  that  all  the  persons  but  two  either  have  what 
they  will,  or  grow  willing  to  have  what  comes  to  their  hand. 

If  the  characters  of  this  play  be  generally  less  interesting  m 
themselves  than  some  we  meet  with  elsewhere  in  the  Poet's  works, 
the  defect  is  pretty  well  made  up  by  the  felicitous  grouping  of 
them.  For  broad  comic  effect,  the  cluster  of  which  Sir  Toby  is 
the  centre,  —  all  of  them  drawn  in  clear  yet  delicate  colours,  —  is 
.nferior  only  to  the  unparalleled  assemblage  that  makes  rich  the  air 
of  Eastcheap.  Of  Sir  Toby  himself,  —  that  most  whimsical,  mad- 
cap, frolicsome  old  toper,  so  full  of  antics  and  fond  of  sprees,  with  a 
plentiful  stock  of  wit  and  an  equal  lack  of  money  to  keep  it  in  mo 
tion, —  it  is  enough  to  say,  with  one  of  the  best  of  Shakespearian 
critics,  that  "  he  certainly  comes  out  of  the  same  associations  where 
the  Poet  saw  Falstaff  hold  his  revels  ; "  and  that  though  "  not  Sir 
John,  nor  a  fainter  sketch  of  him,  yet  he  has  an  odd  sort  of  a  family 
likeness  to  him."  Sir  Andrew  Ague-cheek,  the  aspiring,  lack  a- 
daisical,  self-satisfied  echo  and  sequel  of  Sir  Toby,  fitly  serves  the 
double  purpose  of  butt  and  foil  to  the  latter,  at  once  drawing  him  out 
and  setting  him  off*.  Ludicrously  proud  of  the  most  petty  childish 
irregularities,  which,  however,  his  natural  fatuity  keeps  him  from 
acting,  and  barely  suffers  him  to  affect,  on  this  point  he  reminds 
us  of  that  impressive  imbecility,  Abraham  Slender ;  yet  not  in 
such  sort  as  to  encroach  at  all  upon  Slender's  province.  There 
c*n  scarce  be  found  a  richer  piece  of  diversion  than  Sir  Toby's 
practice  in  dandling  him  out  of  his  money,  and  paying  him  off  with 
the  odd  hope  of  gaining  Olivia's  hand.  And  the  funniest  of  i< 


INTRODUCTION.  -1^ 

is,  that  while  Sir  T  *by  thoroughly  understands  him  he  has  nr-i 
himself  the  slightest  suspicion  what  he  is,  being  as  contideut  of  %ia 
own  wit  as  others  are  of  his  want  of  it.  —  Malvolio,  the  self-love- 
sick  Steward,  has  hardly  had  justice  done  him,  his  bad  qualities 
being  indeed  just  of  the  kind  to  defeat  the  recognition  of  his  /ood 
ones.  He  represents  a  class  of  men,  not  quite  extinct  even  yet, 
whose  leading  characteristic  is  moral  vanity  and  conceit,  and  who 
are  never  satisfied  with  a  law  that  leaves  them  free  to  da  right, 
unless  it  also  give  them  power  to  keep  others  from  doing1  wrong 
Of  course,  therefore,  he  has  too  much  conscience  to  mind  nis  own 
business,  and  is  too  pure  to  tolerate  mirth  in  others,  because  too 
much  swollen  and  stiffened  with  self-love  to  be  merry  himself. 
But  here  again  Mr.  Verplanck  has  spoken  so  happily  that  we  must 
needs  quote  him  :  "  The  gravity,  the  acquirement,  the  real  talent 
and  accomplishment  of  the  man,  all  made  ludicrous,  fantastical, 
and  absurd,  by  his  intense  vanity,  is  as  true  a  conception  as  it  is 
original  and  droll,  and  its  truth  may  still  be  frequently  atiested  by 
comparison  with  real  Malvolios,  to  be  found  every  where  from 
humble  domestic  life  up  to  the  high  places  of  learning,  of  the 
state,  and  even  of  the  Church."  —  Maria's  quaint  stratagem  of  the 
letter  is  evidently  for  the  purpose  of  disclosing  to  othei  i  what  her 
keener  sagacity  has  discovered  long  before  ;  and  its  wi,:kir»g  lifts 
her  into  a  model  of  arch  roguish  mischievousness,  with  wit  to  plau 
and  art  to  execute  whatsoever  falls  within  the  scope  of  such  a  c.5irac- 
ter.  The  scenes  where  the  waggish  troop,  headed  by  this  '•  aoble 
gull-catcher  "  and  most  "  excellent  devil  of  wit,"  bewitch  M«lvo 
lio  into  "  a  contemplative  idiot,"  practising  upon  his  vanitj  and 
conceit  until  he  seems  ready  to  burst  with  an  ecstasy  of  self-Con- 
sequence, and  they  "  laugh  themselves  into  stitches  "  over  him  are 
almost  painfully  diverting.  At  length,  however,  our  merriment  a* 
seeing  him  "jet  under  his  advanc'd  plumes  "  passes  into  pity  for 
his  sufferings,  and  we  feel  a  degree  of  resentment  towards  his  in 
gcnious  persecutors.  Doubtless  the  Poet  meant  to  push  the  joke 
upon  him  so  far  as  to  throw  our  feelings  over  on  his  side,  an<l 
make  us  take  his  part.  For  his  character  is  such  that  perlu.ps 
nothing  but  excessive  reprisals  on  his  vanity  could  make  us  'to 
justice  to  his  real  worth.  —  The  shrewd,  mirth-loving  Fabian,  v"io 
in  greedy  silence  devours  up  fun,  being  made  so  happy  by  the  l>*sl 
tastings,  that  he  dare  not  laugh  lest  the  noise  thereof  should  1.  te 
him  the  remainder;  and  the  witty-wise  Fool,  who  lives  but  tojvit 
out  philosophy,  and  moralize  the  scenes  where  he  moves,  y 
"  pinning  the  pied  lappets  of  his  wit  to  the  backs  of  all  ab«  it 
him,"  complete  this  strange  group  of  laughing  and  laughter-mo  '- 
ing  personages. 

Such  are  the  scenes,  such  the  characters  that  enliven  Olivii  i 
mansion  during  the  play ;  Olivia  herself,  calm,  cheerful,  c  f 
••  smooth,  discreet,  and  stable  bearing,"  hovering  about  then, 
sometimes  unbending,  never  losing  her  dignity  among  then; 


344       TWELFTH    NIGHT,   OR    WHAT    YOU    WILL. 

often  checking,  oftener  enjoying  their  merry-makings,  and  occa- 
sionally emerging  from  her  seclusion  to  be  plagued  by  the  Duke's 
message  and  bewitched  by  his  messenger  :  and  Viola,  always  per- 
fect in  her  part,  yet  always  shrinking  from  it,  appearing  among 
them  from  time  to  time  on  her  embassies  of  love ;  sometimes  a 
partaker,  sometimes  a  provoker,  sometimes  the  victim,  of  theii 
mischievous  sport. 

All  this  array  of  comicalities,  exhilarating  as  it  is  in  itself,  is 
rendered  doubly  so  by  the  frequent  changes  and  playings-in  of 
poetry  breathed  from  the  sweetest  spots  of  romance,  and  which 
"  gives  a  very  echo  to  the  seat  where  Love  is  thron'd  ; "  ideas 
and  images  of  beauty  creeping  and  stealing  over  the  mind  with 
footsteps  so  soft  and  delicate  that  we  scarce  know  what  touches 
us,  —  the  motions  of  one  that  had  learned  to  tread 

"  As  if  the  wind,  not  he,  did  walk, 
Nor  prest  a  flower,  nor  bow'd  a  stalk." 

Upon  this  portion  of  the  play  Hazlitt  remarks  in  his  spirited  way, 
—  "  Much  as  we  think  of  catches,  and  cakes  and  ale,  there  is  some- 
thing that  we  like  better.  We  have  a  friendship  for  Sir  Toby ; 
we  patronize  Sir  Andrew ;  we  have  an  understanding  with  the 
Clown,  a  sneaking  kindness  for  Maria  and  her  rogueries ;  we  feel 
a  regard  for  Malvolio,  and  sympathize  with  his  gravity,  his  smiles, 
his  cross-garters,  his  yellow  stockings,  and  imprisonment :  But 
there  is  something  that  excites  in  us  a  stronger  feeling  than  all 
this." 

Olivia  is  a  considerable  instance  how  much  a  fair  and  candid 
setting-forth  may  do  to  render  an  ordinary  person  attractive,  and 
shows  that  for  the  home-bred  comforts  and  fireside  tenor  of  life 
such  persons  after  all  are  apt  to  be  the  best ;  and  it  is  not  a  little 
remarkable  that  one  so  wilful  and  perverse  on  certain  points  should 
be  so  agreeable  and  interesting  upon  the  whole.  If  it  seem 
rather  naughty  in  her  not  to  give  the  Duke  a  fair  chance  to  try 
his  powers  upon  her,  she  gets  pretty  well  paid  in  falling  a  victim 
to  the  eloquence  which  her  obstinacy  stirs  up  and  provokes.  Nor 
is  it  altogether  certain  whether  her  conduct  springs  from  a  pride 
that  will  not  listen  where  her  fancy  is  not  taken,  or  from  an  un- 
ambitious modesty  that  prefers  not  to  "  match  above  her  degree." 
Her 

"  beauty  truly  blent,  whose  red  and  white 
Nature's  own  sweet  and  cunning  hand  laid  on," 

g&ves  the  credit  of  the  fancy-smitten  Duke  in  such  ar,  urgency  of 
suit  as  might  else  breed  some  question  of  his  manliness  :  and  her 
winning  infirmity,  as  expressed  in  the  sweet  violence  with  whicb 
•he  hastens  on  "  a  contract  and  eternal  bond  of  love  "  with  the 
astonished  and  bewildered  Sebastian,  "  that  her  most  jealous  and 


INTRODUCTION.  345 

too  doubtful  soul  may  live  at  peace,"  shows  how  well  the  stern 
ness  of  the  brain  may  be  tempered  into  amiability  by  the  meek- 
ness of  womanhood  Manifold  indeed  are  the  attractions  which 
the  Poet  has  shed  upon  his  heroes  and  heroines  5  yet  perhaps  the 
learned  spirit  of  me  man  is  more  wisely  apparent  in  the  home- 
keeping  virtues  and  unostentatious  beauty  of  his  average  charac- 
ters. And  surely  the  contemplation  of  Olivia  may  well  suggest 
the  question,  whether  the  former  be  not  sometimes  too  admirable 
ta  be  so  instructive  as  those  whose  graces  walk  more  in  the  light 
of  common  day. 

Similar  thoughts  might  aptly  enough  be  started  by  the  Duke, 
who,  without  any  very  splendid  or  striking  qualities,  manages 
somehow  to  be  a  highly  agreeable  and  interesting  person.  Hw 
character  is  merely  that  of  an  accomplished  gentleman,  enrap 
lured  at  the  touch  of  music,  and  the  sport  of  thick-thronging  fancies. 
It  is  plain  that  Olivia  has  rather  enchanted  his  imagination  thau 
won  his  heart ;  though  he  is  not  himself  aware  that  such  is  the 
case.  This  fancy-sickness,  for  it  appears  to  be  nothing  else,  nat- 
urally renders  him  somewhat  capricious  and  fantastical,  "  unstaid 
and  skittish  "  in  his  motions  ;  and,  but  for  the  exquisite  poetry 
which  it  inspires  him  to  utter,  would  rather  stir  up  our  mirth  than 
start  our  sympathy.  To  use  an  illustration  from  another  play, 
Olivia  is  not  so  much  his  Juliet  as  his  Rosaline  ;  and  perhaps  a 
secret  impression  of  something  like  this  is  the  real  cause  of  her 
rejecting  his  suit.  Accordingly  when  he  sees  her  placed  beyond 
bis  hope  he  has  no  more  trouble  about  her  ;  but  turns  and  builds 
a  true  affection  where,  during  the  preoccupancy  of  his  imagina- 
tion, so  many  sweet  and  tender  appeals  have  been  made  to  his  heart. 

In  Viola,  what  were  else  not  a  little  scattered  are  thoroughly 
composed  ;  her  character  being  the  unifying  power  that  draws 
and  binds  together  the  several  groups  of  persons  in  true  dramatic 
consistency.  Love-taught  herself,  it  was  for  her  to  teach  both  the 
Duke  and  the  Countess  how  to  love  :  indeed  she  plays  into  all 
the  other  parts,  causing  them  to  embrace  and  kiss  within  the  com- 
pass of  her  circulation.  And  yet,  like  some  subtle  agency  work- 
ing most  where  we  perceive  it  least,  she  does  all  this  in  such  a 
way  as  not  to  render  herself  a  special  prominence  in  the  play. 

It  is  observable  that  the  Poet  has  left  it  uncertain  whether  Violm 
was  in  love  with  the  Duke  before  the  assumption  of  her  disguise, 
or  whether  her  heart  was  won  afterwards  by  reading  "  the  book 
even  of  his  secret  soul "  while  wooing  another.  Nor  does  it 
much  matter  whether  her  passion  were  one  of  the  motives,  or  one 
of  the  consequences,  of  her  disguise,  since  in  either  case  such  a 
man  as  Olivia  describes  him  to  be  might  well  find  his  way  to 
tougher  hearts  than  hers.  But  her  love  has  none  of  the  skittish- 
ness  and  unrest  which  mark  the  Duke's  passion  for  Olivia  :  com 
plicated  out  of  all  the  elements  of  her  richly-gifted,  sweetly-tem- 
pered nature,  it  is  strong  without  violence;  never  mars  the  innaM 


#46       TWELFTH    NIGHT,  OR    WHAT    YOU    WILL. 

modesty  of  her  character ;  is  deep  as  life,  tender  as  infancy,  pure 
peaceful,  and  unchangeable  as  truth. 

Mrs.  Jameson,  —  who,  with  the  best  right  to  know  what  belongs 
to  woman,  unites  a  rare  talent  for  taking  others  along  with  her 
and  letting  them  see  the  choice  things  which  her  gifted,  genial  eye 
discerns,  and  who,  in  respect  of  Shakespeare's  heroines,  has  left 
little  for  after  critics  to  do  but  quote  her  words,  —  remarks  that 
"  in  Viola  a  sweet  consciousness  of  her  feminine  nature  is  for  ever 
breaking  through  her  masquerade  ; —  she  plays  her  part  well,  bui 
never  forgets,  nor  allows  us  to  forget,  that  she  is  playing  a  part." 
And,  sure  enough,  every  thing  about  her  save  her  dress  "  is  sem- 
blative  a  woman's  part : "  she  has  none  of  the  pretty  assumptior 
of  a  pert,  saucy,  waggish  manhood,  which  so  delights  us  in  the 
Rosalind  of  As  You  Like  It ;  but  she  has  that  which,  if  not  better 
in  itself,  is  more  becoming  in  her,  — "  the  inward  and  spiritual 
grace  of  modesty "  pervading  all  she  does  and  says.  Even  in 
her  sweet-witted  railleries  with  the  comic  characters  there  is  all 
the  while  an  instinctive  drawing  back  of  female  delicacy,  touching 
our  sympathies,  and  causing  us  to  feel  most  deeply  what  she  is, 
when  those  with  whom  she  is  playing  least  suspect  her  to  be  other 
than  she  seems.  And  the  same  is  true  concerning  her  passion, 
of  which  she  never  so  speaks  as  to  compromise  in  the  least  the 
delicacies  and  proprieties  of  her  sex,  yet  she  lets  fall  many  things 
from  which  the  Duke  easily  gathers  the  true  drift  and  quality  of 
her  feelings  as  soon  as  he  learns  what  she  is.  —  But  the  great 
charm  of  her  character  lies  in  a  moral  rectitude  so  perfect  as  to 
be  a  secret  unto  itself;  a  clear,  serene  composure  of  truth,  min- 
gling so  freely  and  smoothly  with  the  issues  of  life,  that  while,  and 
perhaps  even  because,  she  is  herself  unconscious  of  it,  she  is  never 
once  tempted  to  abuse  or  shirk  her  trust,  though  it  be  to  play  the 
attorney  in  a  cause  that  makes  so  much  against  herself.  In  this 
respect  she  presents  a  fine  contrast  to  Malvolio,  who  has  much 
virtue  indeed,  yet  not  so  much  but  that  the  counter-pullings  of 
temptation  have  rendered  him  deeply  conscious  of  it,  and  so  drawn 
him  into  the  vice,  at  once  hateful  and  ridiculous,  of  moral  pride. 

Twelfth  Night  naturally  falls,  by  internal  as  well  as  external 
notes,  into  the  middle  period  of  the  author's  productive  years. 
It  has  no  such  marks  of  vast  but  immature  powers  as  are  often  to 
be  met  vdth  in  his  earlier  plays  ;  nor  any  of  "  that  intense  idiosyn- 
crasy of  thought  and  expression,  —  that  unparalleled  fusion  of  the 
intellectual  with  the  passionate,"  which  distinguishes  his  later 
ones.  Every  thing  is  cain-i  and  quiet,  with  an  air  of  unruffled 
serenity  and  composure  about  it,  as  if  the  Poet  had  purposely 
taken  to  such  matter  as  he  could  easily  mould  into  graceful  and 
entertaining  forms;  thus  exhibiting  none  of  the  crushing  muscu- 
larity of  mind  to  which  the  hardest  materials  afterwards  or  else- 
where became  as  limber  and  pliant  as  clay  in  the  bauds  of  a 
potter.  Yet  the  play  has  a  marked  severity  of  taste ;  the  style, 


INTRODUCTION.  347 

though  by  no  means  so  great  as  in  some  others,  is  singular) v 
faultless  ;  the  graces  of  wit  and  poetry  are  distilled  into  it  wi.a 
indescribable  delicacy,  as  if  they  came  from  a  hand  at  once  the 
most  plentiful  and  the  most  sparing :  in  short,  the  work  is  every 
where  replete  with  "  the  modest  charm  of  not  too  much ;  "  its 
beauty,  like  that  of  the  heroine,  being  of  the  still,  deep,  retiring 
sort  which  it  takes  some  time  to  find,  forever  to  exhaust,  and 
which  can  be  fully  caught  only  by  the  reflective  imagination  in 
"  the  quiet  and  still  air  of  delightful  studies."  Thus  all  things 
are  disposed  it  most  happy  keeping  with  each  oilier,  and  tern 
pered  ii.  the  blandest  proportion  of  art,  as  if  on  purpose  to  show 
bow 

"  Grace,  laughter,  and  discourse  may  meet, 
And  yet  the  beauty  not  go  less ; 
For  what  is  noble  should  be  sweet." 

Such,  we  believe,  is  pretty  nearly  our  impression  of  this  charm 
ing  play  ;  — "  a  drama/'  as  Knight  happily  describes  it,  •<  run- 
ning over  *"»b  imagination,  and  humour,  and  wit ;  in  which  high 
poetry  is  welded  with  intense  fun ;  and  we  are  made  to  feel  that 
the  lofty  and  the  ludicrous  in  human  affairs  can  only  be  ade- 
quately presented  by  one  who  sees  the  whole  fiorn  an  eagie- 
heigin  to  which  ordinary  men  cannot  sou." 


PERSONS  REPRESENTED 


ORSINO,  Duke  of  Illyria. 

SEBASTIAN,  a  young  Gentleman,  Brother  to  VJola. 

ANTONIO,  a  Sea  Captain,  Friend  to  Sebastian. 

A  Sea  Captain,  Friend  to  Viola. 

VALENTINE,  )  G    tiemen  aUending  on  the  Duke. 

CORIO,  ) 

SIR  TOBY  BELCH,  Uncle  of  Olivia. 

SIR  ANDREW  AGUE-CHEEK. 

MALVOLIO,  Steward  to  Olivia. 

FABIAN,  )  g          te  to  Olivia. 

Clown,     ) 

OLIVIA,  a  rich  Countess. 
VIOLA,  in  love  with  the  Duke. 
MARIA,  Olivia's  Woman. 

Lords,  Priests,  Sailors,  Officers,  Musicians,  and  otliei 
Attendants. 

SCENE,  a  City  in  Illyria ;  and  the  Sea-Coast  near  it 


TWELFTH   NIGHT, 

OR  WHAT  YOU  WILL. 


ACT  I. 
SCENE    I.     An  Apartment  in  the  DUKE'S  Palace 

Enter  DUKE,  CURIO,  Lords;  Musicians  attending. 

Duke.  IF  music  be  the  food  of  love,  play  on : 
Give  me  excess  of  it ;  that,  surfeiting, 
The  appetite  may  sicken,  and  so  die. — 
That  strain  again  ;  —  it  had  a  dying  fall : ' 
O !  it  came  o'er  my  ear  like  the  sweet  south,* 

1  The  sense  of  dying,  as  here  used,  is  technically  expressed 
by  diminuendo.     Respecting  the  fall  Lord  Bacon  says,  —  "The 
falling  from  a  discord   to  a  concord  maketh  great  sweetness  in 
music."  H. 

2  The  original  has  sound  in  this  place.     The  change  is  Pope's, 
and,  whether  right  or  not,  is  certainly  one  of  rare  felicity.     Most 
readers  of  the  Poet  are  accustomed  to  south,  and  therefore  it  is, 
perhaps,  that  sound  grates  somewhat  on  the  ear  :    for  Knight 
argues  so  plausibly  for  the  latter  word  as  to  breed  no  little  hesita- 
tion as  to  the  true  reading.     Upon  the  whole,  however,  to  say 
"  the  sweet  sound  breathes  upon  a  bank  of  violets,  stealing  and 
giving  odour,"  seems  hardly  allowable ;  unless  it  be  proper  to 
speak  of  "  smelling  music,"  which  would  evidently  be  too  comic 
for  such  a  strain  of  poetry  as  this.     In  Sidney's  Arcadia  we  read  ; 
"  Her  breath  is  more  sweet  than  a  gentle  south-wesl  wind,  which 
comes  creeping  over  flowery  fields  and  shadowed  waters  in  the 
extreme  heat  of  summer ; "  and  "  the  flock  of  unspeakable  vir- 
tues," which  occurs  soon  after,  is  so  like  "  the  flock  of  all  affec- 
tions else  that  live  in  her  "  as  to  suggest  that  the  Poet  must  heie 
have  fed  upon  the  sweet  pages  of  the  Hero ;  thus  lending  some 
confirmation  to  the  reading  we  have  adopted.  H. 


350  TWELFTH    NIGHT,  ACT  L 

That  breathes  upon  a  bank  of  violets, 

Stealing  and  giving  odour.3  —  Enough  !  no  more  : 

'Tis  not  so  sweet  now  as  it  was  before. 

O,  spirit  of  love !  how  quick  and  fresh  art  thou, 

That,  notwithstanding  thy  capacity 

Receiveth  as  the  sea,  nought  enters  there, 

Of  what  validity  *  and  pitch  soe'er, 

But  falls  into  abatement  and  low  price, 

Even  in  a  minute  !  so  full  of  shapes  is  fancy, 

That  it  alone  is  high-fantastical. 

Cur.  Will  you  go  hunt,  my  lord  ? 

Duke.  What,  Curio  ? 

Cur.  The  hart. 

Duke.  Why,  so  I  do,  the  noblest  that  I  have. 
O  !  when  mine  eyes  did  see  Olivia  first, 
Methought  she  purg'd  the  air  of  pestilence : 
That  instant  was  I  turn'd  into  a  hart ; 
And  my  desires,  like  fell  and  cruel  hounds, 
E'er   since  pursue   me.5  —  How  now  !  what  news 
from  her  ? 


3  Milton  seems  to  have  had  this  in  his  eye  when  he  wrote  the 
richly-freighted  lines : 

"  Now  gentle  gales, 

Fanning  their  odoriferous  wings,  dispense 
Native  perfumes,  and  whisper  whence  they  stole 
Those  balmy  spoils."  H. 

4  That  is,  worth,  value.     So,  in  All's  Well  that  Ends  Well,  Ac' 
v.  sc.  3:   "  Behold  this  ring,  whose  high  respect  and  rich  validity 
did  lack  a  parallel."  H. 

6  Shakespeare  seems  to  think  men  cautioned  against  too  great 
familiarity  with  forbidden  beauty  by  the  fable  of  Acteon,  who  saw 
Diana  naked,  and  was  torn  to  pieces  by  his  hounds  ;  as  a  man 
indulging  his  eyes  or  his  imagination  with  a  view  of  a  woman  he 
cannot  gain,  has  his  heart  torn  with  incessant  longing.  An  inter- 
pretation far  more  elegant  and  natural  than  Lord  Bacon's,  who,  in 
his  Wisdom  of  the  Ancients,  supposes  this  story  to  warn  us  against 
inquiring  into  the  secrets  of  princes,  by  showing  that  those  who 
know  that  which  for  reasons  of  state  ought  to  be  concealed  will 
be  detected  and  destroyed  by  their  own  servants. 


aC.  1.  OR    WHAT    YOU    WILL.  35l 

Enter  VALENTINE. 

VaL  So  please  my  lord,  I  might  not  be  admitted, 
Bat  from  her  handmaid  do  return  this  answer : 
The  element  itself,  till  seven  years  heat,8 
Shall  not  behold  her  face  at  ample  view ; 
But,  like  a  cloistress,  she  will  veiled  walk, 
A.nd  water  once  a  day  her  chamber  round 
With  eye-offending  brine  :  all  this,  to  season  7 
A  brother's  dead  love,  which  she  would  keep  fresh 
And  lasting,  in  her  sad  remembrance. 

Duke.  O  !  she  that  hath  a  heart  of  that  fine  frame, 
To  pay  this  debt  of  love  but  to  a  brother, 
How  will  she  love,  when  the  rich  golden  shaft 
Hath  kill'd  the  flock  8  of  all  affections  else 
That  live  in  her :  when  liver,  brain,  and  heart, 
These  sovereign  thrones,  are  all  supplied,  and  fill'd 
(Her  sweet  perfections)  with  one  self  king.9  — 

*  Heat  for  heated. 

*  That  is,  preserve.     The  Poet  elsewhere  uses  teason  in  Uui 
nen.se.     Thus  in  Romeo  and  Juliet,  Act  ii.  sc.  3 : 

"  Jesu  Maria !  what  a  deal  of  brine 
Hath  wash'd  thy  sallow  cheeks  for  Rosaline ! 
How  much  salt  water  thrown  away  in  waste, 
To  season  love !  "  H. 

*  See  note  2,  before. 

'  It  seems  impossible  to  clear  this  passage  of  obscurity,  all 
attempts  that  way  having  failed.  Mr.  Collier  says,  —  "  The  pas- 
sage would  run  better  for  the  sense,  and  equally  well  for  the  verse, 
if  it  were  to  read, 

'  when  liver,  brain,  and  heart, 
These  sovereign  thrones,  her  sweet  perfections, 
Are  all  supplied  and  fill'd  with  one  self  king.' " 

Which  may  give  the  true  meaning,  if  it  be  not  the  right  order,  of  the 
text.  The  marks  of  parenthesis,  though  needful  as  the  text  stands, 
are  not  in  the  original.  Knight  says,  —  "  The  phrase  ought  proba- 
bly to  be,  '  Her  sweet  perfection.'  The  filling  of  the  '  sovereign 
thrones '  with  •  one  self  king '  is  the  perfection  of  Olivia's  merits 


352  TWELFTH    NIGHT,  ACT   I 

Away  before  me  to  sweet  beds  of  flowers ; 
Love-thoughts  lie  rich,  when  canopied  with  bowers. 

[Exeunt 

SCENE   II.     The  Sea-coast. 

Enter  VIOLA,  Captain,  and  Sailors. 

Vio.  What  country,  friends,  is  this  ? 

Cap.  This  is  Illyria,  lady 

Vw.  And  what  should  I  do  in  Illyria  1 
My  brother  he  is  in  Elysium. 

Perchance  he  is  not  drown'd  :  —  What  think  you, 
sailors  ? 

Cap.  It  is  perchance  that  you  yourself  were  sav'd. 

Vio.  O,  my  poor  brother !  and  so,   perchance, 
may  he  be. 

Cap.  True,  madam  :  and,  to  comfort  you  with 

chance, 

Assure  yourself,  after  our  ship  did  split, 
When  you,  and  those  poor  number  '  sav'd  with  you, 
Hung  oil  our  driving  boat,  I  saw  your  brother, 
Most  provident  in  peril,  bind  himself 
'Courage  and  hope  both  teaching  him  the  practice) 
To  a  strong  mast,  that  liv'd  upon  the  sea  ; 
Where,  like  Arion  on  the  dolpliin's  back, 

—  according  to  the  ancient  doctrine  that  a  woman  was  not  com 
plete  till  her  union  with  '  a  self  king.'  "  Whichever  of  these  be 
taken,  the  sense  seems  just  and  natural  enough,  and  we  have 
no  third  suggestion  to  offer.  "  Liver,  brain,  and  heart,"  says 
Steevens,  "  are  admitted  in  poetry  as  the  residence  of  passions, 
judgment,  and  sentiments."  Self  king  apparently  means  the 
same  as  self-same  king ;  as  in  Lear  Regan  says.  — "  I  am  made 
of  that  self  metal  as  my  sister."  Accordingly  the  second  folio 
reads,  "  with  one  self-same  king,"  as  if  to  complete  the  measure : 
but  the  endings,  lion  and  sion,  were  often  used  as  two  syllables 
by  the  old  poets.  H. 

1  Number  is  here  used  as  the  plural,  so  that  those  should  not  lx 
changed  to  that,  as  it  usually  is.  H. 


SC.  1L  OR    WHAT    YOU    WILL.  35M 

1  afiw  him  hold  acquaintance  with  the  waves, 
So  long  as  I  could  see. 

Vio.  For  saying  so  there's  gold. 

Mine  own  escape  unfoldeth  to  my  hope, 
Whereto  thy  speech  serves  for  authority, 
The  like  of  him.     Know'st  thou  this  country  ! 

Cap.  Ay,  madam,  well ;  for  1  was  bred  and  born 
Not  three  hours'  travel  from  this  very  place. 

Vic.  Who  governs  here  ? 

Cap.  A  noble  duke,  in  nature  as  in  name. 

Vio.  What  is  his  name  1 

Cap.  Orsino. 

Vio.  Orsino  !  I  have  heard  my  father  name  him  . 
He  was  a  bachelor  then. 

Cap.  And  so  is  now,  or  was  so  very  late : 
For  but  a  month  ago  I  went  from  hence ; 
And  then  'twas  fresh  in  murmur,  (as,  you  know, 
What  great  ones  do  the  less  will  prattle  of,) 
That  he  did  seek  the  love  of  fair  Olivia. 

Vio.  What's  she  7 

Cap.  A  virtuous  maid,  the  daughter  of  a  count 
That  died  some   twelvemonth  since  ;  then  leaving 

her 

In  the  protection  of  his  son,  her  brother, 
Who  shortly  also  died :  for  whose  dear  love 
They  say  she  hath  abjur'd  the  company 
And  sight  of  men. 

Vio.  O,  that  I  serv'd  that  lady ! 

And  might  not  be  deliver'd  to  the  world, 
Till  I  had  made  mine  own  occasion  mellow, 
What  my  estate  is.* 

Cap.  That  were  hard  to  compass, 

*  That  is.  "  I  wish  I  might  not  be  made  public  to  the  world, 
with  regard  to  the  state  of  my  birth  and  fortune,  till  1  have  gained 
a  ripe  opportunity  for  my  design," 


U54  TWELFTH    NIGHT,  ACT  L 

Because  she  will  admit  no  kind  of  suit, 
No,  not  the  Duke's. 

Vio.  There  is  a  fair  behaviour  in  thee,  captain; 
And  though  that  nature  with  a  beauteous  wall 
Doth  oft  close  in  pollution,  yet  of  thee 
I  will  believe,  thou  hast  a  mind  that  suits 
With  tliis  thy  fair  and  outward  character. 
I  pray  thee,  and  I'll  pay  thee  bounteously, 
Conceal  me  what  I  am  ;   and  be  my  aid 
For  such  disguise  as,  haply,  shall  become 
The  form  of  my  intent.     I'll  serve  this  Duke : 
Thou  shall  present  me  as  an  eunuch  to  him.3 
It  may  be  worth  thy  pains ;  for  I  can  sing, 
And  speak  to  him  in  many  sorts  of  music, 
That  will  allow 4  me  very  worth  his  service. 
What  else  may  hap,  to  time  I  will  commit ; 
Only  shape  thou  thy  silence  to  my  wit. 

Cap.  Be  you  his  eunuch,  and  your  mute  I'll  be . 
When  my  tongue  blabs,  then  let  mine  eyes  not  see. 

Vio.  I  thank  thee  :  Lead  me  on.  [Exeunt 

SCENE   HI.     A  Room  in  OLIVIA'S  House. 

Enter  Sir  TOBY  BELCH  and  MARIA. 

Sir  To.  What  a  plague  means  my  niece,  to  take 
the  death  of  her  brother  thus  ?  I  am  sure  care's  an 
enemy  to  life. 

Mar.  By  my  troth,  Sir  Toby,  you  must  come  in 
earlier  o'nights  :  your  cousin,  my  lady,  takes  great 
exceptions  to  your  ill  hours. 

Sir  To.  Why,  let  her  except  before  excepted. 

*  This  plan  of  Viola's  was  not  pursued,  as  it  would  have  been 
inconsistent  with  the  plot  of  the  play.     She  was  presented  u  • 
page,  not  as  an  eunuch 

*  Approve. 


sc.  in.  OR  WHAT  YOU  WILL.  5355 

Mar.  Ay,  but  you  must  confine  yourself  within 
the  modest  limits  of  order. 

Sir  To.  Confine?  I'll  confine  myself  no  finer  than 
I  am  :  these  clothes  are  good  enough  to  drink  in, 
and  so  be  these  boots  too  ;  an  they  be  not,  let  them 
hang  themselves  in  their  own  straps. 

Mar.  That  quaffing  and  drinking  will  undo  yon : 
I  heard  my  lady  talk  of  it  yesterday  ;  and  of  a 
foolish  knight,  that  you  brought  in  one  night  here 
to  be  her  wooer. 

Sir  To.  Who  ?    Sir  Andrew  Ague-cheek  1 

Mar.  Ay,  he. 

Sir  To.  He's  as  tall '  a  man  as  any's  in  Illyna. 

Mar.  What's  that  to  the  purpose  1 

Sir  To.  Why,  he  has  three  thousand  ducats  a 
year. 

Mar.  Ay,  but  he'll  have  but  a  year  in  all  these 
ducats  :  he's  a  very  fool  and  a  prodigal. 

Sir  To.  Fie,  that  you'll  say  so !  he  plays  o'  the 
viol-de-gamboys,2  and  speaks  three  or  four  languages 
word  for  word  without  book,  and  hath  all  the  good 
gifts  of  nature. 

Mar.  He  hath,  indeed,  —  almost  natural :  for,  be- 
sides that  he's  a  fool,  he's  a  great  quarreller ;  and, 
but  that  he  hath  the  gift  of  a  coward  to  allay  the 
gust  he  hath  in  quarrelling,  'tis  thought  among  the 
prudent  he  would  quickly  have  the  gift  of  a  grave. 

Sir  To.  By  this  hand,  they  are  scoundrels,  and 
substractors,  that  say  so  of  him.  Who  are  they  1 

1  The  use  of  tall  for  bold,  raliant,  stout,  was  common  in  Shake- 
speare's time,  and  occurs  several  times  in  his  works.  See  Merry 
Wives  of  Windsor,  Act  i.  sc.  4,  and  note.  Sir  Toby  is  evidently 
bantering  with  the  word,  Sir  Andrew  being  equally  deficient  in 
spirit  and  in  stature.  H. 

f  That  is  the  viol-di-gambo,  a  kind  of  violincello  with  sii 
strings,  then  much  used ;  so  called  because  held  between  the 
legs.  K 


356  TWELFTH    NIGHT,  ACT  L 

Mar.  They  that  add,  moreover,  he's  drunk  nightly 
in  your  company. 

Sir  To.  With  drinking  healths  to  my  niece  :  I') 
drink  to  her,  as  long  as  there  is  a  passage  in  my 
throat,  and  drink  in  Illyria :  He's  a  coward,  and  a 
coystril,3  that  will  not  drink  to  my  niece,  till  his 
brains  turn  o'  the  toe  like  a  parish-top.4  What, 
wench  !  Castiliano  vulgo ;  *  for  here  comes  Sir  An- 
drew Ague-face. 

Enter  Sir  ANDREW  AGUE-CHEEK. 

Sir  And.    Sir  Toby  Belch  !    how  now,  Sir  Toby 
Belch  ? 

Sir  To.  Sweet  Sir  Andrew. 
Sir  And.  Bless  you,  fair  shrew. 
Mar.  And  you  too,  sir. 

3  Holinshed   classes  coisterels  with   lacqueys   and  women,  the 
onwarlike  followers  of  an  army.     It  was  thus  used  as  a  term  of 
contempt.     Nares   says,  —  "A  eoys'trel,  or  kestril,  in  falconry,  is 
sometimes  wrongly  used  for  the  name  of  a  worthless,  mongrel 
kind  of  hawk."  H. 

4  A  large  top  was  formerly  kept  in  each   village  of  "  merry 
England,"  for  the  peasantry  to  exercise  and   amuse  themselves 
with  in  frosty  weather.     "  He  sleeps  like  a  town-top,"  is  an  old 
proverb.  H. 

5  It  is  generally  allowed  that  here  is  a  mistake  ;  though  wheth<»i 
it  be  the  printer's  or  Sir  Toby's,  is  somewhat  questionable.     War- 
burton   proposed  volto,  wherein  he  has  generally  been  followed 
The  meaning  in  this  case  would   be.  "  put  on  a  Castilian  face,' 
that  is,  grave  looks  ;  as  in  Hall's  Satires  : 

"  He  can  kiss  his  hand  in  gree, 
And  with  good  grace  bow  it  below  the  knee, 
Or  make  a  Spanish  face  with  fawning  cheer." 

As  the  text  stands  it  is  difficult  to  affix  any  meaning  to  it.  Mi 
Verplanck  very  aptly  suggests  that  both  vulgo  and  volto  may  be 
right  ;  Sir  Toby  using  the  one  and  meaning  the  other,  thus  blun 
dering,  as  he  has  done  a  little  before  in  using  wol-de-gamboys  foi 
viol-di-gambo.  The  Knight  has  already  said  that  Sir  Andrew 
"  speaks  three  or  four  languages  ;"  and  it  is  not  unlikely  that  hi 
is  here  rivalling  his  learned  friend,  or  perhaps  ridiculing  him.  H 


SC.  III.  OR    WHAT    YOU    WILL.  357 

Sir  To.  Accost,  Sir  Andrew,  accost.' 

Sir  And.  What's  that  ? 

Sir  To.  My  niece's  chamber-maid. 

Sir  And.  Good  mistress  Accost,  I  desire  better 
acquaintance. 

Mar.  My  name  is  Mary,  sir. 

Sir  And.  Good  mistress  Mary  Accost,  — 

Sir  To.  You  mistake,  knight :  accost  is,  front 
her,  board  her,  woo  her,  assail  her. 

Sir  And.  By  my  troth,  I  would  not  undertake  her 
in  this  company.  Is  that  the  meaning  of  accost  ? 

Mar.  Fare  you  well,  gentlemen. 

Sir  To.  An  thou  let  part  so,  Sir  Andrew,  'would 
thou  might'st  never  draw  sword  again ! 

Sir  And.  An  you  part  so,  mistress,  I  would  I 
might  never  draw  sword  again.  Fair  lady,  do  you 
think  you  have  fools  in  hand  ? 

Mar.  Sir,  I  have  not  you  by  the  hand. 

Sir  And.  Marry,  but  you  shall  have  ;  and  here'* 
my  hand. 

Mar.  Now,  sir,  thought  is  free  :  I  pray  you,  bring 
your  hand  to  the  buttery-bar,  and  let  it  drink.7 

Sir  And.  Wherefore,  sweetheart  ?  what's  your 
metaphor  ? 

Mar.  It's  dry,  sir. 

Sir  And.  Why,  I  think  so :  I  am  not  such  an  ass, 
but  I  can  keep  my  hand  dry.  But  what's  your  jest  ? 

Mar.  A  dry  jest,  sir. 

Sir  And.  Are  you  full  of  them  ? 

•  Sir  Toby  speaks  more  learnedly  than  intelligibly  here,  using 
aixosc  in  its  original  sense.  The  word  is  from  the  French  accoster, 
tc  come  tide  by  sidt  or  to  approach.  Accost  is  seldom  used  thus, 
wnich  accounts  for  Sir  Andrew's  mistake.  H. 

7  The  buttery  was  formerly  a  place  for  all  sorts  of  gastric  re- 
freshments ;  and  a  dry  hand  was  considered  a  symptom  of  da 
biiit.  H 


358  TWELFTH    NIGHT,  ACT  1 

Mar.  Ay,  sir ;  I  have  them  at  my  fingers'  ends 
marry,  now  I  let  go  your  hand,  I  am  barren. 

[Exit  MARIA, 

Sir  To.  O  knight !  thou  lack'st  a  cup  of  canarv 
When  did  I  see  thee  so  put  down  1 

Sir  And.  Never  in  your  life,  I  think ;  unless  you 
see  canary  put  me  down :  Methinks,  sometimes  I 
have  no  more  wit  than  a  Christian,  or  an  ordinary 
man  has  :  but  I  am  a  great  eater  of  beef,  and  I  be- 
lieve that  does  harm  to  my  wit. 

Sir  To.  No  question. 

Sir  And.  An  I  thought  that,  I'd  forswear  it  I'll 
nde  home  to-morrow,  Sir  Toby. 

Sir  To.  Pourquoi,  my  dear  knight  1 

Sir  And.  What  is  pourquoi  1  do  or  not  do  ?  1 
would  I  had  bestowed  that  time  in  the  tongues  that 
I  have  in  fencing,  dancing,  and  bear-baiting :  O, 
had  I  but  followed  the  arts  ! 

Sir  To.  Then  hadst  thou  had  an  excellent  head 
of  hair. 

Sir  And.  Why,  would  that  have  mended  my  hair  ? 

Sir  To.  Past  question  ;  for  thou  seest  it  will  not 
curl  by  nature.8 

Sir  And.  But  it  becomes  me  well  enough,  does't 
not? 

Sir  To.  Excellent :  it  hangs  like  flax  on  a  distaff; 
and  I  hope  to  see  a  housewife  take  thee  between 
her  legs  and  spin  it  off. 

Sir  And.  'Faith,  I'll  home  to-morrow,  Sir  Toby : 
your  niece  will  not  be  seen ;  or,  if  she  be,  it's  fou* 
to  one  she'll  none  of  me :  the  Count  himself,  here 
hard  by,  woos  her. 

Sir  To.  She'll  none  o'  the  Count :  she'll  not  match 

8  The  original  has  cool  my  nature.  The  credit  of  the  happf 
wnendation  belongs  to  Theobald  n. 


SC.  11L  OR   WHAT    YOU    WILL  IJ59 

above  her  degree,  neither  in  estate,  years,  nor  wit ; 
I  have  heard  her  swear  it.    Tut,  there's  life  in't,  man. 

Sir  And.  I'll  stay  a  month  longer.  I  am  a  fel- 
low o'  the  strangest  mind  i'  the  world :  I  delight  in 
masques  and  revels  sometimes  altogether. 

Sir  To.  Art  thou  good  at  these  kickshaws,  knight  t 

Sir  And.  As  any  man  in  Illyria,  whatsoever  he 
be,  under  the  degree  of  my  betters  :  and  yet  I  will 
not  compare  with  an  old  man. 

Sir  To.  What  is  thy  excellence  in  a  galliard, 
knight  ? 

Sir  And.  'Faith,  I  can  cut  a  caper. 

Sir  To.  And  I  can  cut  the  mutton  to't. 

Sir  And.  And  I  think  I  have  the  back-trick,  suu- 
ply  as  strong  as  any  man  in  Illyria. 

Sir  To.  Wherefore  are  these  things  hid  ?  where 
fore  have  these  gifts  a  curtain  before  them  ?  are  they 
Tike  to  take  dust,  like  mistress  Mall's  picture  1 '  why 
dost  thou  not  go  to  church  in  a  galliard,  and  come 
home  in  a  coranto  1 10  My  very  walk  should  be  a  jig : 

•  Mistress  Mall  was  a  very  celebrated  character  of  the  Poet  s 
tune,  who  played  many  parts  (not  on  the  stage)  in  male  attire. 
Her  real  name  was  Mary  Frith,  though  commonly  known  as  Mall 
Cutpurse.  In  1610  a  book  was  entered  at  the  Stationers,  called 
''  The  Madde  Prankes  of  Merry  Mall  of  the  Bankside,  with  her 
Walks  in  Man's  Apparel,  and  to  what  purpose,  by  John  Day." 
Middleton  and  Dekker  wrote  a  comedy  entitled  The  Roaring  Girl, 
of  which  she  was  the  heroine.  The  Poet  here  intimates  that  her 
picture  was  curtained  to  keep  off  the  dust ;  others  say,  because 
it  was  not  fit  to  be  seen  K. 

10  Galliard  and  corartto  are  names  of  dances  :  the  galliard,  a 
lively,  stirring  dance,  from  a  Spanish  word  signifying  cheerful, 
gfay ;  the  coranto,  a  quick  dance  for  two  persons,  described  as 
"  traversing  and  running,  as  our  country  dance,  but  having  twice 
as  much  in  a  strain."  Sink-a-pace.  that  is,  cinque-pas,  "  the  name 
of  a  dance  the  measures  whereof  are  regulated  by  the  number 
6ve ; "  thus  spoken  of  by  Sir  John  Davies,  in  his  poem  on  Dan 
cing : 

"  Five  was  the  number  of  the  music's  feet, 
Which  still  the  dance  did  with  five  paces  meet."         H. 


360  TWELFTH    NIGHT,  ACT  I 

I  would  not  so  much  as  make  water,  but  in  a  sink 
a-pace.     What  dost   thou   mean  ?  is  it  a  world  to 
hide  virtues  in  1    I  did  think,  by  the  excellent  con- 
stitution of  thy  leg,  it  was  form'd  under  the  star  of 
a  galliard. 

Sir  And.  Ay,  'tis  strong,  and  it  does  indifferent 
well  in  a  dam'sk-colour'd  stock.11  Shall  we  set  about 
some  revels  1 

Sir  To.  What  shall  we  do  else  1  were  we  not 
born  under  Taurus  1 

Sir  And,  Taurus  1  that's  sides  and  heart. 

Sir  To.  No,  sir ;  it  is  legs  and  thighs.18  Let  me 
see  thee  caper.  Ha  !  higher :  ha,  ha !  —  excellent ! 

[Exeunt 

SCENE    IV.     A  Room  in  the  DUKE'S  Palace. 
Enter  VALENTINE,  and  VIOLA  in  man's  attire. 

Vol.  If  the  Duke  continue  these  favours  towards 
you,  Cesario,  you  are  like  to  be  much  advanc'd  : 
he  hath  known  you  but  three  days,  and  already  you 
are  no  stranger. 

Vio.  You  either  fear  his  humour,  or  my  negli- 
gence, that  you  call,  in  question  the  continuance  of 
his  love :  Is  he  inconstant,  sir,  in  his  favours  ? 

Vol.  No,  believe  me. 

11  Stock  is  here  used  for  stocking.  The  original  has  dam'd 
cotoiir'd,  evidently  a  misprint,  which  Pope  changed  to  Jlame-col- 
our'd.  The  change  has  been  generally  accepted,  though  no  au- 
thority for  it  has  been  adduced.  Knight  proposes  damask-colour1 'd, 
which,  besides  being  quite  as  good  in  itself,  comes  nearer  the 
original  text.  He  says,  — "  It  is  evident  that,  if  damask  were 
written  as  pronounced  rapidly,  dam'sk,  it  might  easily  be  mis- 
printed dam'd."  Drayton  has  "  the  damask-colour'd  dove,"  and 
in  this  play  we  have  "  damnsk  cheek."  H. 

IJ  Alluding  to  the  medical  astrology  of  the  almanacs.  Both 
the  knights  are  wrong,  but  their  ignorance  is  perhaps  intentional. 
Taunts  is  made  to  govern  the  neck  and  throat. 


5C.  IV  OR    WHAT    YOU    WILL..  301 

Enter  DUKE,  CURIO,  and  Attendants. 

Vio.  I  thank  you.     Here  comes  the  Count. 

Duke.  Who  saw  Cesario,  ho  ? 

Vio.  On  your  attendance,  my  lord ;  here. 

Duke.  Stand  you  awhile  aloof.  —  Cesario, 
Thou  know'st  no  less  hut  all  :  I  have  unclasp'd 
To  thee  the  book  even  of  my  secret  soul : 
Therefore,  good  youth,  address  thy  gait '  unto  her ; 
Be  not  denied  access,  stand  at  her  doors, 
And  tell  them,  there  thy  fixed  foot  shall  grow, 
Till  thou  have  audience. 

Vio.  Sure,  my  noble  lord, 

If  she  be  so  abandon'd  to  her  sorrow 
As  it  is  spoke,  she  never  will  admit  me. 

Duke.  Be  clamorous,  and  leap  all  civil  bounds, 
Rather  than  make  unprofited  return. 

Vio.  Say  I  do   speak  with  her,  my  lord,  what 
then? 

Duke.  O  !  then  unfold  the  passion  of  my  love  ; 
Surprise  her  with  discourse  of  my  dear  faith : 
It  shall  become  thee  well  to  act  my  woes ; 
She  will  attend  it  better  in  thy  youth, 
Than  in  a  nuncio  of  more  grave  aspect. 

Vio.  I  think  not  so,  my  lord. 

Duke.  Dear  lad,  believe  it ; 

For  they  shall  yet  belie  thy  happy  years, 
That  say  thou  art  a  man  :  Diana's  lip 
Is  not  more  smooth  and  rubious  ;  thy  small  pipe 
Is  as  the  maiden's  organ,  shrill  in  sound, 
And  all  is  semblative  a  woman's  part. 
I  know  thy  constellation  is  right  apt 
For  this  affair.  —  Some  four  or  five  attend  him ; 
All,  if  you  will ;  for  I  myself  am  best, 

1  Go  thy  wav 


362  TWELFTH    NIGHT-  ACT   I 

When  least  in  company.  —  Prosper  well  in  this, 
And  thou  shall  live  as  freely  as  thy  lord 
To  call  his  fortunes  thine. 

Vio.  I'll  do  my  best 

To  woo  your  lady  :   [ylszefe.]   yet,  a  barful  2  strifo ! 
Whoe'er  I  woo,  myself  would  be  his  wife.  [Exeunt. 

SCENE  V.     A  Room  in  OLIVIA'S  House. 

Enter  MARIA  and  Clown. 

Mar.  Nay,  either  tell  me  where  thou  hast  been, 
or  I  will  not  open  my  lips  so  wide  as  a  bristle  may 
enter,  in  way  of  thy  excuse  :  My  lady  will  hang  thee 
for  thy  absence. 

Clo.  Let  her  hang  me  :  he  that  is  well  hang'd  in 
this  world  needs  to  fear  no  colours. 

Mar.  Make  that  good. 

Clo.  He  shall  see  none  to  fear. 

Mar.  A  good  lenten '  answer.  I  can  tell  thee 
where  that  saying  was  born,  of,  I  fear  no  colours. 

Clo.  Where,  good  mistress  Mary  1 

Mar.  In  the  wars  ;  and  that  may  you  be  bold  to 
say  in  your  foolery. 

Clo.  Well,  God  give  them  wisdom  that  have  it , 
and  those  that  are  fools,  let  them  use  their  talents. 

Mar.  Yet  you  will  be  hang'd  for  being  so  long 
-ibsent  :  or,  to  be  turn'd  away,  is  not  that  as  good 
as  a  hanging  to  you  ? 

*  Thai  is,  a  strife  full  of  bars,  or  impediments. 

1  Probably,  as  Johnson  says,  "  a  good  dry  answer.  A  dry  fig 
was  called  a  lenten  fig.  In  fact  lenten  fare  was  dry  fare."  I  en- 
ten  might  be  applied  to  any  thing  that  marked  the  season  of  Lent. 
Thus  Taylor,  the  water-poet,  speaks  of  "a  lenten  top,"  which  peo- 
ple amused  themselves  with  during  Lent ;  and  in  Hamlet  we  have, 
if  what  lenten  entertainment  the  players  shall  receive  from  you," 
referring,  apparently,  to  the  restrictions  then  put  upon  playj 
daring  that  season.  B 


SC.  V.  OR    WHAT    YOU    WILL.  363 

Clo.  Manj  a  good  hanging  prevents  a  bad  mar- 
riage ;  and  for  turning  away,  let  summer  bear  it  out. 

Mar.  You  are  resolute  then  ? 

Clo.  Not  so  neither  ;  but  I  am  resolv'd  on  two 
points. 

Mar.  That,  if  one  break,2  the  other  will  hold  \ 
or,  if  both  break,  your  gaskins  fall. 

Clo.  Apt,  in  good  faith  ;  very  apt !  Well,  go  thy 
way  :  if  Sir  Toby  would  leave  drinking,  thou  wert 
as  witty  a  piece  of  Eve's  flesh  as  any  in  Illyria. 

Mar.  Peace,  you  rogue !  no  more  o'  that.  Here 
comes  my  lady :  make  your  excuse  wisely ;  you 
were  best.  [Exit. 

Enter  OLIVIA  and  MALVOLIO. 

Clo.  Wit,  an't  be  thy  will,  put  me  into  good 
fooling !  Those  wits  that  think  they  have  thee  do 
very  oft  prove  fools ;  and  I,  that  am  sure  I  lack 
thee,  may  pass  for  a  wise  man :  For  what  saya 
Quinapalus  1  Better  a  witty  fool,  than  a  foolish  wit. 
—  God  bless  thee,  lady  ! 

OK.  Take  the  fool  away. 

Clo.  Do  you  not  hear,  fellows  1  Take  away  the 
lady. 

OK.  Go  to,  you're  a  dry  fool;  I'll  no  more  of 
you  :  besides,  you  grow  dishonest. 

Clo.  Two  faults,  madonna,  that  drink  and  good 
counsel  will  amend :  for,  give  the  dry  fool  drink, 
ihen  is  the  fool  not  dry  ;  bid  the  dishonest  man  mend 
himself ;  if  he  mend,  lie  is  no  longer  dishonest ;  if 
he  cannot,  let  the  botcher  mend  him.  Any  thing 
that's  mended  is  but  patch'd  :  virtue  that  trans 

*  Points  were  laces  which  fastened  the  hose  or  breeches.  Thai 
Fal  staff :  "  Their  points  broken,  down  ^11  their  hose."  Maria  if 
of  course  panning  on  points.  H 


364  TWELFTH    NIGHT,  ACT  L 

gresses  is  but  patch'd  with  sin ;  and  sm  that  amends 
is  but  patch'd  with  virtue :  If  that  this  simple  syl- 
logism will  serve,  so ;  if  it  will  not,  what  remedy  ? 
As  there  is  no  true  cuckold  but  calamity,  so  beau- 
ty's a  flower.  —  The  lady  bade  take  away  the  fool , 
therefore,  I  say  again,  take  her  away. 

Oli,  Sir,  I  bade  them  take  away  you. 

Clo.  Misprision  in  the  highest  degree  !  —  Lady, 
Cucullus  non  facit  monachum  ; 3  that's  as  much  as  to 
say,  I  wear  not  motley  in  my  brain.      Good  madon 
na,  give  me  leave  to  prove  you  a  fool. 

Oli.  Can  you  do  it  ? 

Clo.  Dexterously,  good  madonna. 

Oli.  Make  your  proof. 

Clo.  I  must  catechize  you  for  it,  madonna :  Good 
my  mouse  of  virtue,  answer  me. 

OK.  Well,  sir,  for  want  of  other  idleness,  I'll 
'bide  your  proof. 

Clo.  Good  madonna,  why  mourn'st  thou  1 

Oli.  Good  fool,  for  my  brother's  death. 

Clo.  I  think  his  soul  is  in  hell,  madonna. 

Oli.  I  know  his  soul  is  in  heaven,  fool. 

Clo.  The  more  fool,  madonna,  to  mourn  for  your 
brother's  soul  being  in  heaven.  —  Take  away  the 
fool,  gentlemen. 

Oli.  What  think  you  of  this  fool,  Malvolio  ?  doth 
he  not  mend  ? 

Mai.  Yes;  and  shall  do,  till  the  pangs  of  death 
shake  him :  Infirmity,  that  decays  the  wise,  doth 
ever  make  the  better  fool. 

Clo.  God  send  you,  sir,  a  speedy  infirmity,  for 
the  better  increasing  your  folly !  Sir  Toby  wilJ  be 
sworn  that  I  am  no  fox;  but  he  will  net  pass  his 
word  for  two-pence  that  you  are  no  fool. 

That  is   »•  A  coW    Joes  not  make  a  monk.'1'  H. 


9C.  V.  OR    WHAT    YOU    WILL.  365 

OIL  How  say  you  to  that,  Malvolio  "* 
MaL  I  marvel  your  ladyship  takes  delight  in 
such  a  barren  rascal :  I  saw  him  put  down  the  other 
day  with  an  ordinary  fool  that  has  no  more  brain 
than  a  stone.  Look  you  now,  he's  out  of  his  guard 
already :  unless  you  laugh  and  minister  occasion  to 
him,  he  i»  gagg'd.  I  protest  I  take  these  wise  men, 
that  crow  so  at  these  set  kind  of  fools,  no  belter 
than  the  fools'  zanies.4 

OIL  O  !  you  are  sick  of  self-love,  Malvolio,  and 
taste  with  a  distemper'd  appetite.  To  be  generous, 
guiltless,  and  of  free  disposition,  is  to  take  those 
things  for  bird-bolts,8  that  you  deem  cannon-bullets : 
There  is  no  slander  in  an  allow'd  fool,6  though  he 

4  Douce  explained  this  to  mean  "  fools'  baubles  ;  "  which  has 
oeen  generally  received.  But  Mr.  Dyce  says,  — "  '  Ttie  fools 
zanies '  is  equivalent  to  '  the  buffoons,  or  mimics,  of  the  fools  ; ' 
zany,  both  as  a  substantive  and  verb,  being  commonly  used  in 
that  sense  by  our  early  writers."  In  proof  of  this  he  quotes  from 
Dray  ton ,  — 

"  Thou  art  the  Fowler,  and  dost  show  us  shapes, 
And  we  are  all  thy  zanies,  thy  true  apes." 

Ajid  again  from  Marston, — 

"  Laughs  them  to  scorn,  as  man  doth  busy  apes, 
When  they  will  zany  men." 

f  o  which  we  will  add  the  following  from  Donne's  verses  "  T« 
Mr.  J.  W.:" 

"  Then  write,  that  I  may  follow,  and  so  be 
Thy  echo,  thy  debtor,  thy  foil,  thy  zanee. 
1  shall  be  thought,  if  mine  like  thine  I  shape, 
All  the  world's  lion,  though  I  be  thy  ape.' 

All  which  seem  pretty  decisive  of  the  question.  H. 

*  Bird-bolts  were  short  thick  arrows  with  obtuse  ends,  used  for 
shooting  young  rooks  and  other  birds. 

8  An  allow' d  fool  was  the  domestic  fool  or  court  fool,  like  the 
Clown  in  All's  Well  that  Ends  Well,  and  like  Touchstone  in  As 
You  Like  It ;  that  is,  the  jester  by  profession,  who  dressed  in 
motley ;  with  whom  folly  was  an  art ;  and  whose  functions  are  sc 


3t)G  TWELFTH    NIGHT  ACT  fc 

do  nothing  but  rail ;  nor  no  railing  in  a  Known  dis- 
creet man,  though  he  do  nothing  but  reprove. 

Clo.  Now,  Mercury  endue  thee  with  leasing,7  for 
thou  speakest  well  of  fools  ! 

Re-enter  M  ARIA. 

Mar.  Madam,  there  is  at  the  gate  a  young  gen- 
t.eman  much  desires  to  speak  with  you. 

OIL  From  the  count  Orsino,  is  it  1 

Mar.  I  know  not,  madam  :  'tis  a  fair  young  man, 
and  well  attended. 

OK.  Who  of  my  people  hold  him  in  delay  ? 

Mar.  Sir  Toby,  madam,  your  kinsman. 

OK.  Fetch  him  off,  I  pray  you:  he  speaks  noth- 
ing but  madman  :  Fie  on  him !  [Exit  MARIA.] 
Go  you,  Malvolio  :  if  it  be  a  suit  from  the  Count,  1 
am  sick,  or  not  at  home ;  what  you  will,  to  dismiss 
it.  [Exit  MALVOLIO.]  Now  you  see,  sir,  how  your 
fooling  grows  old,  and  people  dislike  it. 

Clo.  Thou  hast  spoke  for  us,  madonna,  as  if  thy 
eldest  son  should  be  a  fool ;  whose  skull  Jove  cram 
with  brains ;  for  here  comes  one  of  thy  kin,  has 
a  most  weak  pia  mater.6 

Enter  Sir  TOBY  BELCH. 

OIL  By  mine  honour,  half  drunk.  —  What  is  lu 
at  the  gate,  cousin  1 
Sir  To.  A  gentleman. 
OK.  A  gentleman  !  what  gentleman  7 

admirably  set  forth  by  Jaques  in  the  last-mentioned  play,  Art  h. 

•C.  7.  H. 

7  That  is,  lying.     The  Clown  means,  that  unless  Olivia  lied 
she  could  not  "  speak  well  of  fools  ;  "  therefore  he  prays  Mercu 
ry  to  endue  her  with  leasing.  H. 

8  The  membrane  that  covers  the  brain. 


SC    V.  OR    WHAT    YOU    WILL.  367 

Sir  To.  'Tis  a  gentleman  here.  —  A  plague 
o 'these  pickle-herrings  !  —  How  now,  sot  ?  ' 

Clo.  Good  Sir  Toby,  — 

OIL  Cousin,  cousin,  how  have  you  come  so  early 
b^  this  lethargy  ? 

Sir  To.  Lechery  !  I  defy  lechery :  There's  oi^e 
al  the  gate. 

OIL  Ay,  marry  ;  what  is  he  ? 

Sir  To.  Let  him  be  the  devil,  an  he  will,  I  care 
not :  give  me  faith,  say  I.  Well,  it's  all  one. 

[Exit. 

OIL  What's  a  drunken  man  like,  fool  ? 

Clo.  Like  a  drown'd  man,  a  fool,  and  a  madman  . 
one  draught  above  heat  makes  him  a  fool ;  the 
second  mads  him ;  and  a  third  drowns  him. 

OIL'  Go  thou  and  seek  the  coroner,  and  let  him 
sit  o'  my  coz  ;  for  he's  in  the  third  degree  of  drink ; 
he's  drown'd  :  go,  look  after  him. 

Clo.  He  is  but  mad  yet,  madonna  ;  and  the  fool 
shall  look  to  the  madman.  [Exit  Clown 

Re-enter  MALVOLIO. 

MaL  Madam,  yond'  young  fellow  swears  he  will 
speak  with  you.  I  told  him  you  were  sick ;  he 
takes  on  him  to  understand  so  much,  and  therefore 
comes  to  speak  with  you :  I  told  him  you  were 
asleep  ;  he  seems  to  have  a  foreknowledge  of  that 
too,  and  therefore  comes  to  speak  with  you.  What 
is  to  be  said  to  him,  lady  ?  he's  fortified  against 
any  denial 

OK.  Tell  turn,  he  shall  not  speak  with  me. 

MaL  He  has  been  told  so  ;  and  he  says  he'D 

•  8ot  a  often  used  by  the  Poet  for  fool ;  as  in  The  Merry 
Wives  Dr.  Caius  says.  — "  Have  you  make-a  de  tot  of  us  7  "  H 


368  TWELFTH    NIGHT,  ACT  1. 

stand  at  your  door  like  a  sheriff's  post,10  and  be  the 
supporter  to  a  bench,  but  he'll  speak  with  you. 

OIL  What  kind  of  man  is  he  1 

Mai.  Why,  of  man  kind. 

Oli.  What  manner  of  man  ? 

Mai.  Of  very  ill  manner  :  he'll  speak  with  you, 
•*  ill  you  or  no. 

Oli.  Of  what  personage  and  years  is  he  ? 

Mai.  Not  yet  old  enough  for  a  man,  nor  young 
enough  for  a  boy ;  as  a  squash  is  before  'tis  a  peas- 
cod,  or  a  codling  n  when  'tis  almost  an  apple :  'tis 
with  him  e'en  standing  water,  between  boy  and  man. 
He  is  very  well-favour'd,  and  he  speaks  very  shrew- 
ishly :  one  would  think  his  mother's  milk  were 
scarce  out  of  him. 

Oli.  Let  him  approach  :  Call  in  my  gentlewoman. 

Mai.  Gentlewoman,  my  lady  calls.  [Exit 

Re-enter  MARIA. 

Oli.  Give  me  my  veil ;  come,  throw  it  o'er  my 
face  :  We'll  once  more  hear  Orsino's  embassy. 

Enter  VIOLA. 

Vio.  The  honourable  lady  of  the  house,  which  ii 
she? 

OK.  Speak  to  me  ;  I  shall  answer  for  her :  Your 
will? 

Vio.  Most  radiant,  exquisite,  and  unmatchable 
beauty,  —  I  pray  you  tell  me,  if  this  be  the  lady  of 

10  The  sheriffs  formerly  had  painted  posts  set  up  at  their  doors 
on  which  proclamations  and  placards  were  affixed. 

11  A  codling,  according  to  Mr.  Gifford,  means  an  involucrum  or 
kdl,  and  was  used  by  our  old  writers  for  that  early  state  of  vege- 
tation, when  the  fruit,  after  shaking  off  the  blossem,  began  to 
assume  a  globular  and  determinate  shape. 


SC.  *  OR   WHAT    f OU    WILL.  3(J9 

the  house,  for  I  never  saw  her  :  I  would  be  loth  to 
cast  away  my  speech  ;  for,  besides  that  it  is  excel- 
lently well  penn'd,  I  have  taken  great  pains  to  con 
it.  Good  beauties,  let  me  sustain  no  scorn;  I  am 
very  comptible  12  even  to  the  least  sinister  usage. 

OH.  Whence  came  you,  sir  ? 

Vio.  I  can  say  little  more  than  I  have  studied, 
and  that  question's  out  of  my  part.  Good  gentle 
one,  give  me  modest  assurance  if  you  be  the  lady 
af  the  house,  that  I  may  proceed  in  my  speech. 

OIL  Are  you  a  comedian  7 

Vio.  No,  my  profound  heart !  and  yet,  by  the 
very  fangs  of  malice  I  swear,  I  am  not  that  I  play 
Are  you  the  lady  of  the  house  1 

OK.  If  I  do  not  usurp  myself,  I  am. 

Vio.  Most  certain,  if  you  are  she,  you  do  usurp 
yourself;  for  what  is  yours  to  bestow,  is  not  yours 
to  reserve.  But  this  is  from  my  commission  :  I  will 
on  with  my  speech  in  your  praise,  and  then  show  you 
the  heart  of  my  message. 

OK.  Come  to  what  is  important  in't :  I  forgive 
you  the  praise. 

Vio.  Alas !  I  took  great  pains  to  study  it,  and  'tis 
poetical. 

OK.  It  is  the  more  like  to  be  feigned  :  I  pray  you, 
keep  it  in.  I  heard  you  were  saucy  at  my  gates  ; 
and  allow'd  your  approach,  rather  to  wonder  at  you 
than  to  hear  you.  If  you  be  not  mad,  be  gone  ;  if 
you  have  reason,  be  brief:  'tis  not  that  time  of  moon 
with  me  to  make  one  in  so  skipping  a  dialogue. 

Mar.  Will  you  hoist  sail,  sir  1  here  lies  your  way. 

Vio.  No,  good  swabber  :  I  am  to  hull 13  here  a 

u  That  is,  susceptible,  or  sensitive.  The  proper  meaning  of 
the  word  is  accountable.  H. 

18  To  hull  means  to  drive  to  and  fro  upon  the  water  withccr* 
sails  or  rudder. 


370  TWELFTH    NIGHT,  APr    », 

little  longer.  —  Some  mollification  for  your  giun».,M 
sweet  lady.  Tell  me  your  mind:  I  am  a  mes- 
senger.15 

OIL  Sure,  you  have  some  hideous  matter  to  de- 
liver, when  the  courtesy  of  it  is  so  fearful.  Speak 
your  office. 

Vio.  It  alone  concerns  your  ear.  I  bring  no 
overture  of  war,  no  taxation  of  homage  :  I  hold  the 
olive  in  my  hand ;  my  words  are  as  full  of  peace  as 
matter. 

OIL  Yet  you  began  rudely.  What  are  you  ? 
what  would  you  ? 

Vio.  The  rudeness  that  hath  appear'd  in  me  have 
I  learn'd  from  my  entertainment.  What  I  am,  and 
what  I  would,  are  as  secret  as  maidenhead :  to  your 
ears,  divinity  ;  to  any  other's,  profanation. 

OIL  Give  us  the  place  alone :  we  will  hear  this 
divinity.  [Exit  MARIA.]  Now,  sir,  what  is  your  text  1 

Vio.  Most  sweet  lady,  — 

OH.  A  comfortable  doctrine,  and  much  may  be 
said  of  it.  Where  lies  your  text  1 

Vio.  In  Orsino's  bosom. 

OK.  In  his  bosom  1  In  what  chapter  of  his  bosom  7 

Vio.  To  answer  by  the  method,  in  the  first  of  his 
heart. 

OK.  O !  I  have  read  it :  it  is  heresy.  Have  you 
no  more  to  say  ? 

14  Ladies  in  romance  are  guarded  by  giants.  Viola,  seeing  the 
waiting-maid  so  eager  to  oppose  her  message,  entreats  Olivia  to 
pacify  her  giant. 

"  This  is  usually  printed  thus  : 

"  OK.  Tell  me  your  mind. 

Vio.  I  am  a  messenger." 

We  give  the  passage  aa  it  stands  in  the  original ;  the  sense  being 
—  "I  am  a  messenger  ;  therefore  toll  me  your  mind  that  I  maj 
bear  bark  an  answer."  So  that  he  change  is  quite  needless 
though  the  me  aiug  be  clear  enough  either  way.  H. 


dC.  V.  OR    WHAT    YOU    WILL.  371 

Via.  Good  madam,  let  me  see  your  face. 

OIL  Have  you  any  commission  from  your  lord 
to  negotiate  with  my  face  ?  you  are  now  out  of  your 
text :  but  we  will  draw  the  curtain,  and  show  you 
the  picture.  Look  you,  sir ;  such  a  onf  I  was  this 
present : 16  —  Is't  not  well  done  1  [  Unveiling. 

Via.  Excellently  done,  if  God  did  all. 

OK.  'Tis  in  grain,  sir  :  'twill  endure  wind  and 
weather. 

Via.  'Tis  beauty  truly  blent,  whose  red  and  white 
Nature's  own  sweet  and  cunning  hand  laid  on : 
Lady,  you  are  the  crudest  she  alive, 
If  you  will  lead  these  graces  to  the  grave, 
And  leave  the  world  no  copy. 

OH.  O,  sir !  I  will  not  be  so  hard-hearted.  I  will 
give  out  divers  schedules  of  my  beauty  :  It  shall  be 
inventoried  ;  and  every  particle  and  utensil  labell'd 
to  my  will :  as,  item,  two  lips  indifferent  red  ;  item, 
two  gray  eyes  with  lids  to  them  ;  item,  one  neck, 
one  chin,  and  so  forth.  Were  yau  sent  hither  to 
praise  me  1 

Via.  I  see  you  what  you  are :  you  are  too  proud : 
But,  if  you  were  the  devil,  you  are  fair. 
My  lord  and  master  loves  you :    O  !  such  love 
Could  be  but  recompens'd,  though  you  were  crown'd 
The  nonpareil  of  beauty  ! 

Oli.  How  does  he  love  me  ! 

Via.  With  adorations,  fertile  tears, 
With  groans  that  thunder  love,  with  sighs  of  fire. 

OK.  Your  lord  does  know  my  mind  ;  I  cannot 
love  him  : 

w  Modern  editions  generally  insert  as  before  /,  and  then  tui. 
the  adjective,  present,  into  a  verb  :  "  such  a  one  as  I  was,  this 
presents  "  It  is  to  be  borne  in  mind  that  the  idea  of  a  picture  is 
continued.  So  that  the  change  is  worse  than  useless  ;  the  mean- 
ing being, —  "behold  the  picture  of  me,  such  as  I  am  at  th« 
present  moment."  H. 


375i  TWELFTH    NIGHT,  ACT  L 

Yet  I  suppose  him  virtuous,  know  him  noble, 
Of  great  estate,  of  fresh  and  stainless  youth ; 
In  voices  well  divulg'd,17  free,  learn'd,  and  valiant, 
And,  in  dimension,  and  the  shape  of  nature, 
A  gracious  person ;  but  yet  I  cannot  love  him  : 
He  might  have  took  his  answer  long  ago. 

Vio.  If  I  did  love  you  in  my  master's  flame, 
With  such  a  suffering,  such  a  deadly  life, 
In  your  denial  I  would  find  no  sense ; 
I  would  not  understand  it. 

OIL  Why,  what  would  you  ? 

Vio.  Make  me  a  willow  cabin  at  your  gate, 
And  call  upon  my  soul  within  the  house ; 
Write  loyal  cantons 18  of  contemned  love, 
And  sing  them  loud  even  in  the  dead  of  night ; 
Halloo  your  name  to  the  reverberate  hills, 
And  make  the  babbling  gossip  of  the  air  19 
Cry -out,  Olivia  !    O  !  you  should  not  rest 
Between  the  elements  of  air  and  earth, 
But  you  should  pity  me. 

OIL  You  might  do  much :  What  is  your  parentage  I 

Vio.  Above  my  fortunes,  yet  my  state  is  well : 
I  am  a  gentleman. 

OIL  Get  you  to  your  lord  ; 

I  cannot  love  him  :  let  him  send  no  more  ; 
Unless,  perchance,  you  come  to  me  again 
To  tell  me  how  he  takes  it.     Fare  you  well : 
I  thank  you  for  your  pains  :  spend  this  for  me. 

Vio.  I  am  no  fee'd  post,  lady ;  keep  your  purse  : 
My  master,  not  myself,  lacks  recompense. 
Love  make  his  heart  of  flint  that  you  shall  love ; 

17  That  is,  well-reputed  for  his  knowledge  in  languages,  whicft 
was  esteemed  a  great  accomplishment  in  the  Poet's  time.       H. 
*•  Cantons  is  the  old  English  word  for  cantos.  H. 

"  A  Shakesperian  expression  for  echo.  H 


SC.  V  OR   WHAT    YOU    WILL.  373 

And  let  your  fervour,  like  my  master's,  be 

Plac'd  in  contempt !    Farewell,  fair  cruelty.    [Exit. 

OIL  What  is  your  parentage  ? 
"  Above  my  fortunes,  yet  my  state  is  well : 
I  am  a  gentleman."  —  I'll  be  sworn  thou  art : 
Thy  tongue,  thy  face,  thy  limbs,  actions,  and  spirit, 
Do  give  thee  five-fold  blazon.  —  Not  toe   fast : 

soft  !  soft  ! 

Unless  the  master  were  the  man.  —  How  now  t 
Even  so  quickly  may  one  catch  the  plague. 
Methinks  I  feel  this  youth's  perfections 
With  an  invisible  and  subtle  stealth 
To  creep  in  at  mine  eyes.     Well,  let  it  be.  — 
What,  ho  !    Malvolio  !  — 

Re-enter  MALVOLIO. 

Mai.  Here,  madam,  at  your  service. 

OIL  Run  after  that  same  peevish  messenger, 
The  County's  man  :  he  left  this  ring  behind  him, 
Would  I,  or  not :  tell  him  I'll  none  of  it. 
Desire  him  not  to  flatter  with  his  lord, 
Nor  hold  him  up  with  hopes  :  I  am  not  for  him. 
(f  that  the  youth  will  come  this  way  to-morrow, 
('11  give  him  reasons  for't.     Hie  thee,  Malvolio. 

Mai.  Madam,  I  will.  [Exit, 

OIL  I  do  I  know  not  what ;  and  fear  to  find 
Mine  eye  too  great  a  flatterer  for  my  mind.80 
Fate,  show  thy  force  :  ourselves  we  do  not  owe  ; ft 
What  is  decreed,  must  be  ;  and  be  this  so  !     [Exit. 

90  That  is.  she  fears  that  her  eyes  had  formed  so  flattering'  an 
idea  of  the  supposed  youth  Cesario,  that  she  should  not  have 
•trength  of  mind  sufficient  to  resist  the  impression. 

81  That  is,  we  are  not  our  own  masters,  we  cannot  govern  our- 
selves. Owe  for  own,  possess. 


374  TWELFTH    NIOHT,  ACT  IL 

ACT   II. 

SCENE    I.     The  Sea-coast. 

Enter  ANTONIO  and   SEBASTIAN. 

Ant.  Will  you  stay  no  longer  1  nor  will  you  not 
that  I  go  with  you  ? 

Seb.  By  your  patience,  no :  my  stars  shine  darkly 
over  me  ;  the  malignancy  of  my  fate  might,  perhaps, 
distemper  yours ;  therefore  I  shall  crave  of  you  your 
leave,  that  I  may  bear  my  evils  alone :  It  were  a 
bad  recompense  for  your  love,  to  lay  any  of  them 
on  you. 

Ant.  Let  me  yet  know  of  you,  whither  you  are 
hound. 

Seb.  No,  'sooth,  sir  ;  my  determinate  voyage  19 
mere  extravagancy.1  But  I  perceive  in  you  so  ex- 
cellent a  touch  of  modesty,  that  you  will  not  extort 
from  me  what  I  am  willing  to  keep  in  ;  therefore  it 
charges  me  in  manners  the  rather  to  express  2  myself. 
You  must  know  of  me,  then,  Antonio,  my  name  is 
Sebastian,  which  I  call'd  Rodorigo  :  my  father  was 
that  Sebastian  of  Messaline,3  whom  I  know  you 
have  heard  of :  he  left  behind  him  myself,  and  a  sis- 
ter, both  born  in  an  hour.  If  the  heavens  had  been 
pleas'd,  'would  we  had  so  ended !  but  you,  sir 
alter'd  that ;  for,  some  hour  before  you  took  me  from 
the  breach  of  the  sea,  was  my  sister  drown'd. 

Ant.  Alas,  the  day  ! 

Seb.  A  lady,  sir,  though  it  was  said  she  much 
resembled  me,  was  yet  of  many  accounted  beauti- 

1  That  is,  wandering  about,  with  no  particular  place  in  view.  H. 

«  Reveal. 

*  Probably  intended  for  Metelin.  an  island  in  th«  Archipelago 


SC    1.  OR   WHAT   YOU    WILL.  375 

ful :  but,  though  I  could  not,  with  such  estimable 
wonder,4  overfar  believe  that,  yet  thus  far  I  will 
boldly  publish  her,  she  bore  a  mind  that  envy  could 
not  but  call  fair.  She  is  drown'd  already,  sir,  with 
salt  water,  though  I  seem  to  drown  her  remem- 
brance again  with  more. 

Ant.  Pardon  me,  sir,  your  bad  entertainment. 

Seb.  O,  good  Antonio !  forgive  me  your  trouble. 

Ant.  If  you  will  not  murder  me  for  my  love,  let 
me  be  your  servant.5 

Seb.  If  you  will  not  undo  what  you  have  dona, 
that  is,  kill  him  whom  you  have  recover'd,  desire 
it  not.  Fare  ye  well  at  once :  my  bosom  is  full  of 
kindness ;  and  I  am  yet  so  near  the  manners  of  my 
mother,  that  upon  the  least  occasion  more,  mine 
eyes  will  tell  tales  of  me.  I  am  bound  to  the  count 
Orsino's  court :  farewell.  [Exit. 

Ant.  The  gentleness   of  all   the   gods   go  with 

thee! 

I  have  many  enemies  in  Orsino's  court, 
Else  would  I  very  shortly  see  thee  there : 

4  That  is,  esteeming  wonder.     Shakespeare  sometimes  uses 
the  active  and  passive  adjectives  interchangeably.     Thus  In  Mil- 
ton we  find  "  uneocpressive  notes,"  for  inexpressible.  H. 

5  Mr.  Knight  thinks,  and  apparently  with  good  reason,  that  in 
this  passage  reference  is  had  to  a  superstition  thus  indicated  by 
Sir  Walter  Scott  in  The  Pirate:  When   Mordaunt  has   rescued 
Cleveland  from  the  sea,  and  is  trying  to  revive  him,  Bryce  the 
pedler  says  to  him,  — "  Are  you  mad  ?  you,  that   have  so   long 
lived  in  Zetland,  to  risk  tht  saving  of  a  drowning  man  ?     Wot  ye 
cot,  if  you  bring  him  to  life  again,  he  will  be  sure  to  do  you  some 
capital  injury  ?  "    Sir  Walter  suggests  in  a  note  that  this  inhuman 
maxim  was  probably  heVd  by  the  islanders  of  the  Orkneys,  as  an 
excuse  for  leaving  all  to  perish  alone  who  were  shipwrecked  upon 
their  coasts,  to  the  end  that  there  might  be  nothing  to  hinder  the 
plundering  of  their  goods ;  which  of  course  could  not  well  be,  if 
any  of  the  owners  survived.     This  practice,  he  says,  continued 
into  the  eighteenth  century,  and  "  was  with  difficulty  weeded  ou 
by  the  sedulous  instructions  of  the  clergy  and  the  rigorous  injunr 
lions  of  the  proprietors."  H 


376  TWELFTH    NIGHT  ACT  It 

But,  come  what  may,  I  do  adore  thee  so, 

That  danger  shall  seem  sport,  and  I  will  go.  [Exit. 

SCENE   II.     A  Street. 

Enter  VIOI.A  ;  MALVOLIO  following. 

MaL  Were  not  you  even  now  with  the  countess 
Olivia  ? 

Via.  Even  now,  sir :  on  a  moderate  pace  I  have 
since  arriv'd  but  hither. 

Mai.  She  returns  this  ring  to  you,  sir  :  you  might 
have  saved  me  my  pains,  to  have  taken  it  away 
yourself.  She  adds  moreover,  that  you  should  put 
your  lord  into  a  desperate  assurance  she  will  none 
of  him  :  And  one  thing  more :  that  you  be  never  so 
hardy  to  come  again  in  his  affairs,  unless  it  be  tn 
report  your  lord's  taking  of  this.  Receive  it  so.1 

Via.  She  took  the  ring  of  me .  —  I'll  none  of  it. 

MaL  Come,  sir  ;  you  peevishly  threw  it  to  her ; 
and  her  will  is,  it  should  be  so  return 'd  :  if  it  be 
worth  stooping  for,  there  it  lies  in  your  eye  ;  if  not, 
be  it  his  that  finds  it.  [Exit. 

Vio.  I  left  no  ring  with  her:    What  means  tliia 

lady? 

Fortune  forbid  my  outside  have  not  charm'd  her ! 
She  made  good  view  of  me  ;  indeed,  so  much, 
That  methought  her  eyes  had  lost  her  tongue,* 
For  she  did  speak  in  starts  distractedly. 
She  loves  me,  sure :  the  cunning  of  her  passion 
Invites  me  in  this  churlish  messenger. 
None  of  my  lord's  ring  ?  why,  he  sent  her  none. 
[  am  the  man  :  —  If  it  be  so,  as  'tis, 
Poor  lady,  she  were  better  love  a  dream. 

1  That  is,  understand  it  so.  H. 

*  That  is,  the  fixed  and  eager  view  she  took  of  me  perverted 
the  use  of  her  tongue,  and  made  her  talk  distractedly. 


SC.  III.  OR    WHAT    YOU    WILL.  377 

Disguise,  I  see  thou  art  a  wickedness, 

Wherein  the  pregnant 3  enemy  does  much. 

How  easy  is  it  for  the  proper-false  4 

In  women's  waxen  hearts  to  set  their  forms  ! 

Alas  !  our  frailty  is  the  cause,  not  we  ; 

For,  such  as  we  are  made  of,  such  we  be.5 

How  will  tliis  fadge  ? 6    My  master  loves  her  dearly ; 

And  I,  poor  monster,  fond  as  much  on  him  ; 

And  she,  mistaken,  seems  to  dote  on  me : 

What  will  become  of  this  ?  As  I  am  man, 

My  state  is  desperate  for  my  master's  love ; 

As  I  am  woman,  now  alas  the  day! 

What  thriftless  sighs  shall  poor  Olivia  breathe  ! 

O  time  !  thou  must  untangle  this,  not  I ; 

It  is  too  hard  a  knot  for  me  to  untie.  [Exit 

SCENE    m.     A  Room  in  OLIVIA'S  House. 

Enter  Sir  TOBY  BELCH,  and  Sir  ANDREW  AGUE 

CHEEK. 

Sir  To.  Approach,  Sir  Andrew :  not  to  be  a-bed 
after  midnight,  is  to  be  up  betimes;  and  diluculo 
surgere,1  thou  know'st,  — 

*  Dexterous,  cunning. 

4  Proper  is  here  used  in  the  sense  of  handsome ;  the  meaning 
of  the  passage  being, — "  How  easy  it  is  for  handsome  deceivers 
to  print  their  forms  in  the  waxen  hearts  of  women."  Such  com- 
pounds as  proper-false  are  not  unusual  in  Shakespeare.  Beau 
ttaus-eril  occurs  in  this  play.  H. 

*  Such  evidently  refers  to  frailty  in  the  preceding  line ;  the 
sense  being,  —  "  Since  we  are  made  of  frailty,  we  must  needs  be 
frai'."     The  original,  however,  reads,  —  "For,  such  as  we   are 
made,  j/"such  we  be;  "  that  is,  if  we  be  frail,  we  are  such  as  we 
are  made.     So   that   the  sense  seems   good  enough  either  way; 
which  breeds  no  little  doubt  whether  Malone's  emendation  ought 
to  be  admitted.  H. 

8  That  is,  fit,  agree.  Thns  Drayton  :  "  With  flattery  my  muse 
could  never  fadge"  H. 

1  Diluculo  siirgere,  laluberrimum  est.  This  adage  is  in  Lilly'i 
Grammar. 


378  TWELFTH    NIGHT,  ACT  II. 

Sir  And.  Nay,  by  my  troth,  I  know  not :  but  1 
know  to  be  up  late,  is  to  be  up  late. 

Sir  To.  .4  false  conclusion  ;  I  hate  it  as  an  un- 
fill'd  can :  To  be  up  after  midnight,  arid  to  go  to 
bed  then,  is  early ;  so  that  to  go  to  bed  after  mid- 
night, is  to  go  to  bod  betimes.  Do  not  our  lives 
consist  of  the  four  elements  1 

Sir  And.  'Faith,  so  they  say  ;  but  I  think  it  rathei 
consists  of  eating  and  drinking.2 

Sir  To.  Thou  art  a  scholar ;  let  us  therefore  eat 
and  drink.  —  Marian,  I  say  !  —  a  stoop 3  of  wine  ! 

Enter  Cloven. 

Sir  And.  Here  comes  the  fool,  i'faith. 

Clo.  How  now,  my  hearts  7  Did  you  never  see 
the  picture  of  we  three  1 4 

Sir  To.  Welcome,  ass :  now  let's  have  a  catch. 

Sir  And.  By  my  troth,  the  fool  has  an  excellent 
breast.5  I  had  rather  than  forty  shillings  I  had 
such  a  leg,  and  so  sweet  a  breath  to  sing,  as  the 
fool  has.  In  sooth,  thou  wast  in  very  gracious 
fooling  last  night,  when  thou  spokest  of  Pigrogro- 
mitus,  of  the  Vapians  passing  the  equinoctial  of 
Quebus ;  'twas  very  good,  i'faith.  I  sent  thee 
sixpence  for  thy  leman  :  6  Hadst  it  1 

2  A  ridicule  of  the  medical  theory  of  that  time,  which  supposed 
health  to  consist  in  the  just  temperament  of  the  four  elements  in 
the  human  frame.  Homer  agrees  with  Sir  Andrew  : 

"  Strength  consists  in  spirits  and  in  blood, 
And  those  are  ow'd  to  generous  wine  and  food." 

*  That  is,  cup. 

*  Alluding  to  an  old  common  sign  representing  two  fools  or  log- 
gerheads, under  which  was  inscribed,  "We  three  loggerheads  be." 

*  Breast  was  often  used  for  voice  in  the  Poet's  time.     Thus  we 
have  the  phrase,  "  singing  men  well-breasted."     Did  this  use  of 
the  word  grow  from  the  form  of  the  breast  having  something   to 
do  with  the  quality  of  the  voice  ?  H . 

*  That  is,  for  thy  sweetheart.     The  original  has  lemon,  which 


SC.   III.  OR    WHAT    YOU    WILL,.  379 

Clo.  I  did  impeticos  thy  gratillity  ;  7  for  Malvo- 
lio's  nose  is  no  whipstock :  My  lady  has  a  white 
hand,  and  the  Myrmidons  are  no  bottle-ale  houses. 

Sir  And,  Excellent !  Why,  this  is  the  best  fool- 
ing, when  all  is  done.  Now,  a  song. 

Sir  To.  Come  on  ;  there  is  sixpence  for  you : 
b"t's  have  a  song. 

Sir  And.  There's  a  testril 8  of  me  too  :  if  one 
knight  give  a  — 

Clo.  Would  you  have  a  love-song,  or  a  song  of 
good  life  ?  9 

Sir  To.  A  love-song,  a  love-song. 

Sir  And.  Ay,  ay  ;  I  care  not  for  good  life. 

Song. 

Clo.  O,  mistress  mine !  where  are  you  roaming  1 
O  !  stay  and  hear ;  your  true  love's  cominp. 

That  can  sing  both  high  and  low  • 
Trip  no  further,  pretty  sweeting ; 
Journeys  end  in  lovers'  meeting, 
Every  wise  man's  son  doth  know. 

Sir  And.  Excellent  good,  i'faith  ! 
Sir  To.  Good,  good. 

Clo.  What  is  love  ?  'tis  not  hereafter; 
Present  mirth  hath  present  laughter ; 
What's  to  come  is  still  unsure : 

Mr.  Collier  oddly  enough  restores,  supposing  that  Sir  Andrew  sent 
a  sixpence  to  buy  a  lemon,  or  to  pay  for  one !  H. 

7  That  is,  impetticoat,  or  impocket,  thy  gratuity.     Some  have 
complained  seriously  that  they  could  not  understand  the  Clown 
in  this  scene  ;  which  is  shrewd  proof  they  did  not  understand  the 
Poet !  H. 

8  Testril  is  the  same  as  testern,  an  account  of  which  is  given  ID 
The  Two  Gentlemen  of  Verona,  Act  i.  sc.  1.  H. 

*  That  is,  a  civil  and  virtuous  song,  as  it  is  called  in  The 
Mad  Pranks  of  Robin  Goodfellow.  • 


3&)  TWELFTH    NIGHT,  A.CT  JI 

In  delay  there  lies  no  plenty  ; 
Then  come  kiss  me,  sweet-and-twentv,10 
Youth's  a  stuff  will  not  endure 

Sir  And.  A  mellifluous  voice,  as  I  am  true  knight 

Sir  To.  A  contagious  breath. 

Sir  And.  Very  sweet  and  contagious,  i'faith. 

Sir  To.  To  hear  by  the  nose,  it  is  dulcet  in  con- 
tagion. But  shall  we  make  the  welkin  dance  n  in- 
deed ?  Shall  we  rouse  the  night-owl  in  a  catch,  that 
will  draw  three  souls  out  of  one  weaver  1 12  shall  we 
do  that  ? 

Sir  And.  An  you  love  me,  let's  do't :  I  am  dog 
at  a  catch. 

do.  By'r  lady,  sir,  and  some  dogs  will  catch  well. 

Sir  And.  Most  certain :  let  our  catch  be,  "  Thou 
knave." 

Clo.  "  Hold  thy  peace,  thou  knave,"  knight  ?  J 
shall  be  constrain'd  in't  to  call  thee  knave,  knight. 

Sir  And.  'Tis  not  the  first  time  I  have  constrain'd 
one  to  call  me  knave.  Begin,  fool ;  it  begins, 
"  Hold  thy  peace." 

Clo.  I  shall  never  begin,  if  I  hold  my  peace. 

Sir  And.  Good,  i'faith  !    Come,  begin. 

[They  sing  a  catch. 

Enter  MARIA. 

Mar.  What  a  caterwauling  do  you  keep  here  ! 
If  my  lady  have  not  call'd  up  her  steward,  Malvo 

13  Sweet-cmd-twenty  appears  to  have  been  an  ancient  term  of 
endearment. 

11  Drink  till  the  sky  seems  to  turn  round. 

14  Shakespeare  represents  weavers  much  given  to  harmony  in 
his  time.     Sir  Toby  meant  that  the  catch  should  be  so  harmoniou* 
that  it  would  hale  the  soul  out  of  a  weaver  thrice  orer,  a  rhodo- 
montade  way  of  expressing,  that  it  would  give  this  warm  lover  ol 
song  thrice  more  delight  than  it  would  give  another  man. 


SC.  111.  OR    WHAT    YOU    WILL.  381 

lio,  and  bid  him  turn  you  out  of  doors,  never  trust 
me. 

Sir  To.  My  lady's  a  Cataian ; 13  we  are  politi- 
cians ;  Malvolio's  a  Peg-a-Ramsey ;  and  "  Three 
merry  men  be  we  ! "  Am  not  I  consanguineous  1 
am  I  not  of  her  blood  ?  Tilley-valley,14  lady ! 
44  There  dwelt  a  man  in  Babylon,  lady,  lady  !  " 

[Singing* 

Clo.  Beshrew  me,  the  knight's  in  admirable 
fooling. 

Sir  And.  Ay,  he  does  well  enough,  if  he  be  dis- 
pos'd,  and  so  do  I  too  :  he  does  it  with  a  better 
grace,  but  I  do  it  more  natural. 

Sir  To.  44  O !  the  twelfth  day  of  December,"—  " 

[Singing. 

Mar.  For  the  love  o'  God,  peace  ! 

Enter  MALVOLIO. 

MaL  My  masters,  are  you  mad  ?  or  what  are  you  1 
Have  you  no  wit,  manners,  nor  honesty,  but  to 
gabble  like  tinkers  at  this  time  of  night  1  Do  you 
make  an  alehouse  of  my  lady's  house,  that  ye  squeak 

13  This  word  generally  signified  a  sharper.     Sir  Toby  is  too 
drunk  for  precision,  and  uses  it  merely  as  a  term  of  reproach. 

14  An  interjection  of  contempt  equivalent  to  fiddle-faddle. 

15  With  Sir  Toby  as  wine  goes  \u  music  comes  out,  and  fresh 
songs  keep  bubbling  up  in  his  memory  as  he  waxes  mellower.     A 
similar  thing  occurs  in  2  Henry  IV.,  where  master  Silence  grows 
merry  and  musical  amidst  his  cups  in  "  the  sweet  of  the  night."    Of 
the  ballads  referred  to  by  Sir  Toby,  "  O  !  the  twelfth  day  of  De- 
cember "  is  entirely  lost.     Percy  has  one  stanza  of  "  There  dwell 
a  man  in  Babylon,"  which  he  describes  as  "  a  poor  dull  perform- 
ance, and  very  long."     "  Three  merry  men  be  we  "  seems  to  have 
been  the  burden  of  several  old  songs,  one  of  which  was  called  "  Rob- 
in Hood  and  the  Tanner."     "  Peg-a-Ramsey,"  or  Peggy  Ram 
sey,  was  an  old  popular  tune  which  had  several  ballads  fitted  to  it. 
'  Thou  knave"  was  a  catch  which,  says  Sir  John  Hawkins,  •'  ap- 
pears to  be  so  contrived  that  each  of  the  singers  calls  the  other 
knave  in  turn."  u 


3852  TWELFTH    NIGHT,  ACT  II 

out  your  coziers' 16  catches  without  any  mitigation 
or  remorse  of  voice  1  Is  there  no  respect  of  place, 
persons,  nor  time,  in  you  1 

Sir  To.  We  did  keep  time,  sir,  in  our  catches. 
Sneck  up  !  I7 

Mai.  Sir  Toby,  I  must  be  round  with  you.  My 
lady  bade  me  tell  you,  that  though  she  harbours  you 
as  her  kinsman,  she's  nothing  allied  to  your  disor- 
ders. If  you  can  separate  yourself  and  your  mis- 
demeanors, you  are  welcome  to  the  house  ;  if  not, 
an  it  would  please  you  to  take  leave  of  her,  she  is 
very  willing  to  bid  you  farewell. 

Sir  To.  "  Farewell,  dear  heart,  since  I  must  needs 
be  gone."  18 

Mar.  Nay,  good  Sir  Toby. 

Clo.  "  His  eyes  do  show  his  days  are  almost  done." 

Mai.  Is't  even  so  ? 

Sir  To.  "  But  I  will  never  die." 

Clo.  Sir  Toby,  there  you  lie. 

Mai.  This  is  much  credit  to  you. 

Sir  To.  "  Shall  I  bid  him  go  ?  " 

Clo.  «  What  an  if  you  do  ?  " 

Sir  To.  "  Shall  I  bid  him  go,  and  spare  not  ?  J 

Clo.  "  O,  no,  no,  no,  no,  you  dare  not." 

Sir  To.  Out  o'tune  !  —  Sir,  ye  lie.  —  Art  any 
more  than  a  steward  If  Dost  thou  think,  because 


*•  Coshers  means  botchers,  whether  botching  with  needles  or 
with  awls.  H. 

17  A  word  of  contempt  the  original  meaning  of  which  is  lost, 
but  which  came  to  signify,  —  "  Go  hang  yourself,"  or  "  Go  and 
oe  hanged."  H. 

18  This  is   the  first  line  of  an  old  ballad,  entitled  Corydon's 
Farewell  to  Phillis.     It  was  inserted  in  Percy's  Reliques  from  an 
ancient  miscellany,  called  The  Golden  Garland  of  Princely  De- 
lights.    The  musical  dialogue  that  follows  between  Sir  Toby  and 
the  Clown  is  adapted  to  their  purpose  from  the  first  two  stanzas 
of  the  ballad.  u. 


bC.  III.  OR    WHAT    YOU    WILL.  383 

thou  art  virtuous,  there  shall  be  no  more  cakes 
and  ale  ? 

Clo.  Yes,  by  Saint  Anne  ;  and  ginger  shall  be 
hot  i'the  mouth  too. 

Sir  To.  Thou'rt  i'the  right.  —  Go,  sir,  rub  your 
chain  l9  with  crums.  —  A  stoop  of  wine,  Maria  ! 

Mat.  Mistress  Mary,  if  you  priz'd  my  lady's  fa- 
vour at  any  tiling  more  than  contempt,  you  would 
not  give  means  for  this  uncivil  rule  :  she  shall  know 
of  it,  by  this  hand.  [Exit. 

Mar.  Go  shake  your  ears. 

Sir  And.  'Twere  as  good  a  deed  as  to  drink  when 
a  man's  a-hungry,  to  challenge  him  to  the  field ; 
and  then  to  break  promise  with  him,  and  make  a 
fool  of  him. 

Sir  To.  Do't,  knight :  I'll  write  thee  a  challenge ; 
or  I'll  deliver  thy  indignation  to  him  by  word  of 
mouth. 

Mar.  Sweet  Sir  Toby,  be  patient  for  to-night: 
since  the  youth  of  the  Count's  was  to-day  with  my 
lady,  she  is  much  out  of  quiet.  For  monsieur  Mal- 
volio,  let  me  alone  with  him  :  if  I  do  not  gull  him 
into  an  aye-word,*0  and  make  him  a  common  recrea- 
tion, do  not  think  I  have  wit  enough  to  lie  straight 
in  my  bed  :  I  know  I  can  do  it. 

Sir  To.  Possess  us,  possess  us  ;  tell  us  something 
of  him. 

19  Stewards  anciently  wore  a  chain  of  silver  or  gold,  as  a  mark 
of  superiority,  as  did  other  principal  servants.  Wolsey's  chief 
cook  is  described  by  Cavendish  as  wearing  "  velvet  or  satin  wiih 
a  chain  of  gold."  One  of  the  methods  used  to  clean  gl.\  plate 
was  rubbing  it  with  crums.  Thus  in  Webster's  Duchess  of  Malfy  : 
"  Yea  and  the  chippings  of  the  buttery  fly  after  him,  to  scour  hit 
gold  chain."  H. 

*°  That  is,  a  by-word.  In  the  original  it  is  an  aytcord  ;  but 
whether  the  n  got  misplaced,  or  the  meaning  bt  aye-word,  nobody 
can  tell.  Nay-word  occurs  in  The  Merry  Wives  of  Windsor,  bui 
in  the  sense  of  watchword.  H 


384  TWELFTH    NIGHT,  ACT  1L 

Mar.  Marry,  sir,  sometimes  he  is  a  kind  of 
Puritan. 

Sir  And.  O  !  if  I  thought  that,  I'd  beat  him  like 
a  dog. 

Sir  To.  What !  for  being  a  Puritan  1  thy  exquisite 
reason,  dear  knight. 

Sir  And.  I  have  no  exquisite  reason  for't,  but  1 
have  reason  good  enough. 

Mar.  The  devil  a  Puritan  that  he  is,  or  any  thing 
constantly,  but  a  time  pleaser  ;  an  affection'd  ass,21 
that  cons  state  without  book,  and  utters  it  by  great 
swarths : 22  the  best  persuaded  of  himself,  so  cram- 
med, as  he  thinks,  with  excellences,  that  it  is  his 
ground  of  faith,  that  all  that  look  on  him  love  him ; 
and  on  that  vice  in  him  will  my  revenge  find  notable 
cause  to  work. 

Sir  To.  What  wilt  thou  do  1 

Mar.  I  will  drop  in  his  way  some  obscure  epis- 
tles of  love ;  wherein,  by  the  colour  of  his  beard, 
the  shape  of  his  leg,  the  manner  of  his  gait,  the  ex- 
pressure  of  his  eye,  forehead,  and  complexion,  he 
shall  find  himself  most  feelingly  personated  :  I  can 
write  very  like  my  lady,  your  niece  ;  on  a  forgotten 
matter  we  can  hardly  make  distinction  of  our  hands. 

Sir  To.  Excellent !     I  smell  a  device. 

Sir  And.  I  have't  in  my  nose  too. 

Sir  To.  He  shall  think,  by  the  letters  that  thou 
wilt  drop,  that  they  come  from  my  niece,  and  that 
she  is  in  love  with  him. 

Mar.  My  purpose  is,  indeed,  a  horse  of  that  colour. 

Sir  And.  And  your  horse  now  would  make  him 
an  ass. 


11  An  affected  ass.    Affection  was  often  used  for  affectation    H. 
w  That  is,  by  great  parcels  or  heaps.     Swarths  are  the  rowi 
of  grass  left  by  the  scythe  of  the  mower. 


SC.  IV.  OR    WHAT    YOU    WILL.  385 

Mar.  Ass,  I  doubt  not. 

Sir  And.  O  !  'twill  be  admirable. 

Mar.  Sport  royal,  I  warrant  you  :  I  know  my 
physic  will  work  with  him.  I  will  plant  you  two, 
and  let  the  fool  make  a  third,  where  he  shall  find 
the  letter  :  observe  his  construction  of  it.  For  this 
night,  to  bed,  and  dream  on  the  event.  Farewell 

[Exit 

Sir  To.  Good  night,  Penthesilea." 

Sir  And.  Before  me,  she's  a  good  wench. 

Sir  To.  She's  a  beagle,  true  bred,  and  one  that 
adores  me  :  What  o'that  1 

Sir  And.  I  was  ador'd  once  too. 

Sir  To.  Let's  to  bed,  knight.  —  Thou  hadst  need 
send  for  more  money. 

Sir  And.  If  I  cannot  recover  your  niece,  I  am  a 
foul  way  out. 

Sir  To.  Send  for  money,  knight :  if  thou  hast 
her  not  i'  the  end,  call  me  Cut.24 

Sir  And.  If  I  do  not,  never  trust  me  ;  take  it  how 
you  will. 

Sir  To.  Come,  come :  I'll  go  burn  some  sack  ; 
'tis  too  late  to  go  to  bed  now :  Come,  knight ; 
come,  knight.  [Exeunt. 

SCENE    IV.     A  Room  in  the  DUKE'S  Palace. 

Enter  DUKE,  VIOLA,  CURJO,  and  others. 

Duke.  Give  me  some  music:  —  Now,  good  mor- 
row, friends :  — 
Now,  good  Cesario,  but  that  piece  of  song, 

w  Penthesilea  was  queen  of  the  Amazons,  and  killed  by  Achilles 
in  the  Trojan  War,  politely.  m. 

*•  This  term  of  contempt  probably  signified  call  me  gelding  or 
horse.  Cut  was  a  common  contraction  of  curtail.  One  of  th< 
carriers'  horses  in  Henry  IV.  is  called  Cut. 


380  TWELFTH    NIGHT,  ACT   II. 

That  old  and  antique  song  we  heard  last  night  • 
Methought  it  did  relieve  my  passion  much, 
More  than  light  airs  and  recollected  terms,1 
Of  these  most  brisk  and  giddy-paced  times  :  — 
Come,  but  one  verse. 

Cur.  He  is  not  here,  so  please  your  lordship,  thai 
should  sing  it. 

Duke.  Who  was  it  ? 

Cur.  Feste,  the  jester,  my  lord  ;  a  fool,  that  the 
lady  Olivia's  father  took  much  delight  in :  he  is  about 
the  house. 

Duke.  Seek  him  out,  and  play  the  tune  the  while. 

[Exit  CURIO.  —  Music. 
Come  hither,  boy:  if  ever  thou  shalt  love, 
In  the  sweet  pangs  of  it  remember  me  ; 
For  such  as  I  am  all  true  lovers  are  ; 
Unstaid  and  skittish  in  all  motions  else, 
Save  in  the  constant  image  of  the  creature 
That  is  belov'd.  —  How  dost  thou  like  this  tune  ? 

Via.  It  gives  a  very  echo  to  the  seat 
Where  Love  is  thron'd. 

Duke.  Thou  dost  speak  masterly  : 

My  life  upon't,  young  though  thou  art,  thine  eye 
Hath  stay'd  upon  some  favour 2  that  it  loves  ; 
Hath  it  not,  boy  1 

Via.  A  little,  by  your  favour. 

Duke.  What  kind  of  woman  is't  1 

Vio.  Of  your  complexion 

Duke.  She  is  not  worth  thee  then.     What  years 
i'faith  ? 

Vio.  About  your  years,  my  lord. 

Duke.  Too  old,  by  heaven !    Let  still  the  woman 
take 

i  Recalled,  repeated  terms,  alluding  to  the  repetitions  in  song*. 
•  Favour  is  often  used  for  feature.     Viola  in  her  reply  playi 
upon  the  word.  H. 


SO.   \V.  OR    WHAT    YOU    WILL.  387 

An  elder  than  herself;   so  wears  she  to  him, 
So  sways  she  level  in  her  husband's  heart. 
For,  boy,  however  we  do  praise  ourselves, 
Our  fancies  are  more  giddy  and  unfirm, 
More  longing,  wavering,  sooner  lost  and  won, 
Than  women's  are. 

Vio.  I  think  it  well,  my  lord. 

Duke.  Then  let  thy  love  be  younger  than  thyself. 
Or  thy  affection  cannot  hold  the  bent ; 
For  women  are  as  roses,  whose  fair  flower, 
Being  once  display'd,  doth  fall  that  very  hour. 

Vio.  And  so  they  are  :  alas  !  that  they  are  so  ; 
To  die,  even  when  they  to  perfection  grow  ! 

Re-enter  CURIO  and  Clown. 
Duke.  O,  fellow !  come,  the   song  we  had  last 

night.  — 

Mark  it,  Cesario ;  it  is  old,  and  plain  : 
The  spinsters  and  the  knitters  in  the  sun, 
And  the  free  3  maids  that  weave  their  thread  with 
bones, 

*  In  our  older  language  free  was  often  used  for  chaste,  pure 
Thus  Chaucer  in  the  Prioress's  Tale : 

"  O  mother  maide,  O  maide  and  mother  fre." 

"  This  song  I  have  heard  say, 
Was  makid  of  our  blissful  Laay/re." — 

"  Wherefore  I  sing,  and  sing  I  mote  certain 

In  honour  of  that  blisful  maiden  fre." 
In  the  Speculum  Vitae  of  Richard  Rolle  it  is  thus  appied : 

"  For  our  Lorde  wolde  boren  be 
Of  a  weddid  woman  that  was /re, 
That  was  blessid  Marye  mayde  clene." 
Drayton  uses  it  in  his  fourth  Eclogue  : 

"  A  daughter  cleped  Dowsaoel,  a  maiden  fair  andfi-er" 
And  Ben  Jonson  makes  it  part  of  the  praise  he  lavishes  on  l.ucy 
Countess  of  Bedford  : 

"  I  meant  to  make  her  fair,  and/ree,  and  wise, 
Of  greatest  blood,  aud  yet  more  good  than  great  r 


388  TWELFTH    NIGHT,  ACT   TI 

Do  use  to  chaunt  it :  it  is  silly  sooth,4 
And  dallies  with  the  innocence  of  love, 
lake  the  old  age.6 

Clo.  Are  you  ready,  sir  ? 

Duke.  Ay ;  pr'ythee,  sing. 

Song. 

Clo.  Come  away,  come  away,  death, 
And  in  sad  cypress  let  me  be  laid ; 

Fly  away,  fly  away,  breath ; 
I  am  slain  by  a  fair  cruel  maid. 
My  shroud  of  white,  stuck  all  with  yew, 

O  !  prepare  it ; 

My  part  of  death  no  one  so  true 
Did  share  it. 

Not  a  flower,  not  a  flower  sweet, 
On  my  black  coffin  let  there  be  strown ; 

Not  a  friend,  not  a  friend  greet 
My  poor  corpse,  where  my  bones  shall  be  thrown 
A  thousand  thousand  sighs  to  save, 

Lay  me,  O !  where 
Sad  true  lover  never  find  my  grave, 
To  weep  there. 

Duke.  There's  for  thy  pains. 

Clo.  No  pains,  sir  :  I  take  pleasure  in  singing,  sir 

Duke.  I'll  pay  thy  pleasure  then. 

Clo.  Truly,  sir,  and  pleasure  will  be  paid  one 
time  or  another. 

Duke.  Give  me  now  leave  to  leave  thee. 

Clo.  Now,  the  melancholy  god  protect  thee  !  and 
the  tailor  make  thy  doublet  of  changeable  taffata. 
for  thy  mind  is  a  very  opal !  e  —  I  would  have  men 

4  Silly  sooth,  or  rather  sely  sooth,  is  simple  truth. 
6  The  old  age  is  the  ages  past,  times  of  simplicity. 
*  The  opal  is  a  perr  which  varies  its  hues,  as  it  is  viewed  in 
different  lights. 


SO.  IV.  OR   WHAT    YOU    WILL.  389 

of  such  constancy  put  to  sea,  that  their  business 
might  be  every  thing,  and  their  intent  every  where ; 
for  that's  it,  that  always  makes  a  good  voyage  of 
nothing.  —  Farewell.  [Exit  Clown. 

Duke.  Let  all  the  rest  give  place.  — 

[Exeunt  CURIO  and  Attendants. 
Once  more,  Cesario, 

Get  thee  to  yond'  same  sovereign  cruelty  : 
Tell  her  my  love,  more  noble  than  the  world, 
Prizes  not  quantity  of  dirty  lands : 
The  parts  that  fortune  hath  bestow'd  upon  her, 
Tell  her,  I  hold  as  giddily  as  fortune  ; 
But  'tis  that  miracle,  and  queen  of  gems, 
That  nature  pranks  her  in,  attracts  my  soul. 

Vio.  But,  if  she  cannot  love  you,  sir  1 

Duke.  T  cannot  be  so  answer'd. 

Vio.  Sooth,  but  you  must 

Say  that  some  lady,  as  perhaps  there  is, 
Hath  for  your  love  as  great  a  pang  of  heart 
As  you  have  for  Olivia ;  you  cannot  love  her ; 
You  tell  her  so  :  Must  she  not  then  be  answer'd  t 

Duke.  There  is  no  woman's  sides 
Can  bide  the  beating  of  so  strong  a  passion 
As  love  doth  give  my  heart ;  no  woman's  heart 
So  big  to  hold  so  much  :  they  lack  retention. 
Alas  !  their  love  may  be  call'd  appetite, 
No  motion  of  the  liver,  but  the  palate, 
That  suffers  surfeit,  cloyment,  and  revolt; 
But  mine  is  all  as  hungry  as  the  sea, 
And  can  digest  as  much :    Make  no  compare 
Between  that  love  a  woman  can  bear  me, 
And  that  I  owe  Olivia. 

Vio.  Ay,  but  I  know,  — 

Duke.  What  dost  thou  know  ? 

Vio.  Too  well  what  love  women  to  men  may  owe ; 


390  TWELFTH    NIGHT,  ACT  II 

In  faith,  they  are  as  true  of  heart  as  we. 
My  father  had  a  daughter  lov'd  a  man, 
As  it  might  be,  perhaps,  were  I  a  woman, 
I  should  your  lordship. 

Di*ke.  And  what's  her  history  1 

Vio,  A  blank,  my  lord  :    She  never  told  her  love, 
But  let  concealment,  like  a  worm  i'  the  bud, 
Feed  on  her  damask  cheek  :  she  pin'd  in  thought ; 
And,  with  a  green^and  yellow  melancholy, 
She  sat  like  patience  on  a  monument, 
Smiling  at  grief.      Was  not  this  love,  indeed  1 
We  men  may  say  more,  swear  more  :  but,  indeed, 
Our  shows  are  more  than  will  ;  for  still  we  prove 
Much  in  our  vows,  but  little  in  our  love. 

Duke.  But  died  thy  sister  of  her  love,  my  boy  1 
Vio.  I  am  all  the  daughters  of  my  father's  house, 
And  all  the  brothers  too  ;  —  and  yet  I  know  not :  — • 
Sir,  shall  I  to  this  lady  ? 

Duke.  Ay,  that's  the  theme. 

To  her  in  haste  :  give  her  this  jewel ;  say 
My  love  can  give  no  place,  bide  no  denay. 

[Exeunt 

SCENE   V.     OLIVIA'S  Garden. 

Enter  Sir  TOBY  BELCH,  Sir  ANDREW  AGUE-CHEEK, 
ami  FABIAN. 

Sir  To.  Come  thy  ways,  signior  Fabian. 

Fab.  Nay,  I'll  come  :  if  I  lose  a  scruple  of  tliis 
sport,  let  me  be  boil'd  to  death  with  melancholy. 

Sir  To.  Would'st  thou  not  be  glad  to  have  the 
niggardly,  rascally  sheep-biter  come  by  some  notable 
shame  ? 

Fab.  I  would  exult,  man:  you  know  he  brought 
me  out  o'  favour  with  my  lady,  about  a  bear-baiting 
here. 


8C.  V.  OR    WHAT    YOU    WILL.  39 

Sir  To  To  anger  him  we'll  have  the  bear  again ; 
and  we  will  fool  him  black  and  blue  :  —  Shall  we 
not,  Sir  Andrew  ? 

Sir  And.  An  we  do  not,  it  is  pity  of  our  lives. 

Enter  MARIA. 

Sir  To.  Here  comes  the  little  villain :  —  How 
now,  my  metal  of  India  ?  * 

Mar.  Get  ye  all  three  into  the  box-tree :  Malvo- 
ho's  coming  down  this  walk  ;  he  has  been  yonder 
i'the  sun,  practising  behaviour  to  his  own  shadow, 
this  half  hour :  Observe  him,  for  the  love  of  mock- 
ery ;  for  I  know  this  letter  will  make  a  contempla- 
tive idiot  of  him.  Close,  in  the  name  of  jesting  ! 
[  The  men  hide  themselves.]  Lie  thou  there  ;  [  Throws 
dmon  a  letter.]  for  here  comes  the  trout  that  must 
be  caught  with  tickling.  [Exit  MARIA. 

Enter  MALVOLIO. 

Mai.  'Tis  but  fortune ;  all  is  fortune.  Mana  once 
told  me,  she  did  affect  me :  and  I  have  heard  her- 
self come  thus  near,  that,  should  she  fancy,  it  should 
be  one  of  my  complexion.  Besides,  she  uses  me 
with  a  more  exalted  respect  than  any  one  else  that 
follows  her.  What  should  I  think  on't  ? 

Sir  To.  Here's  an  overweening  rogue  ! 

Fab.  O,  peace!  Contemplation  makes  a  rare 
turkey-cock  of  him :  how  he  jets 8  under  his  ad- 
vanc'd  plumes ! 

Sir  And.  'Slight !    I  could  so  beat  the  rogue.  — 

1  The  first  folio  reads,  "  mettle  of  India,"  which  was  altered  in 
the  second  to  nettle.  Metal  of  India  plainly  means,  my  precious 
girl,  my  heart  of  gold.  H. 

*  To  jet  was  to  strut.  "  Tcjette  lordly  through  the  streets  thai 
men  may  see  them.  Incedere  magnifies  per  ora  Iwmimim."  Baret, 
80,  in  Chapman's  Bussy  D'Ambois  :  "  To  jet  in  other's  pinnies  s« 
haughtily  " 


392  TWELFTH    NIGHT,  ACT  Lu 

Sir  To,  Peace  !    1  say. 

Mai.  To  be  count  Malvolio.  — 

Sir  To.  All,  rogue  ! 

Sir  And.  Pistol  him,  pistol  him. 

Sir  To.  Peace,  peace  ! 

Mai.  There  is  example  for't :  the  lady  of  the 
Strachy  3  married  the  yeoman  of  the  wardrobe. 

Sir  And.  Fie  on  him,  Jezebel ! 

Fab.  O,  peace  !  now  he's  deeply  in  :  look,  how 
imagination  blows 4  him. 

Mai.  Having  been  three  months  married  to  her, 
sitting  in  my  state,  — 

Sir  To.  O,  for  a  stone-bow,5  to  hit  him  in  the 
eye  ! 

Mai.  — calling  my  officers  about  me,  in  my 
branch 'd  velvet  gown  ;  having  come  from  a  day-bed, 
where  I  have  left  Olivia  sleeping ;  — 

Sir  To.  Fire  and  brimstone  ! 

Fab.  O,  peace,  peace  ! 

Mai.  —  and  then  to  have  the  humour  of  state  ; 
and  after  a  demure  travel  of  regard,  —  telling  them 
I  know  my  place,  as  I  would  they  should  do  theirs, 
-  to  ask  for  my  kinsman  Toby,  — 

Sir  To.  Bolts  and  shackles ! 

3  Respecting  this  name,  Mr.  Collier  says,  —  "  There  is,  doubt- 
less, an   allusion  here  to   some  popular  story  now  not  known  j 
1  Strac.hy '  being1  the  name  of  some  noble  family  of  which  one  of 
the  female  branches  had  condescended  to  marry  a  menial.     Pos- 
sibly that  family  was  the  Strozzi  of  Florence  ;  and  the  copyist  of 
Shakespeare's  manuscript,  not  being  able  to  read  the  word,  wrote 
'  Strach}' '  for  Strozzi,  or   Strozzy."     Mr.  R.  P.  Knight  conjec- 
tured that  Strachy  was  a  corruption  of  the  Italian  Stratico,  a  word 
derived  from  the  low  Latin  Strategiis,ot  Straticus,and  often  used 
for  the  governor  of  a  city  or  province.     Other  explanations  have 
been  offered  ;    but  if  the  reader  cannot  select  from  these  two, 
much  less  would  he  be  able  to  do  so  from  all  of  them.  H. 

4  That  is,  puffs  him  up.     So  in  Bacon's  Advancement  of  Learn- 
ing :  '•  Knowledge  bloweth  up,  but  charity  buildeth  up."         H. 

8  A  bow  for  hurling  stones.  a 


sC.  V.  OR    WHAT    YOU    WILL.  39fl 

Fab.  O,  peace,  peace,  peace  !  now,  now. 

MaL  —  seven  of  my  people,  with  an  obedient 
start,  make  out  for  him  :  I  frown  the  while  ;  and, 
perchance,  wind  up  my  watch,  or  play  with  my  — 
some  rich  jewel.  Toby  approaches  ;  courtesies 6 
there  to  me  :  — 

Sir  To.  Shall  this  fellow  live  ? 

Fab.  Though  our  silence  be  drawn  from  us  with 
cords,  yet  peace  ! 

MaL  —  I  extend  my  hand  to  him  thus,  quench- 
ing my  familiar  smile  with  an  austere  regard  of 
control,  — 

Sir  To.  And  does  not  Toby  take  you  a  blow 
o'the  lips  then  1 

MaL  —  saying,  "  Cousin  Toby,  my  fortunes  hav 
ing  cast  me  on  your  niece,  give  me  this  prerogative 
of  speech  :  "  — 

Sir  To.  What,  what  1 

MaL  —  "  You  must  amend  your  drunkenness." 

Sir  To.  Out,  scab ! 

Fab.  Nay,  patience !  or  we  break  the  sinews  of 
our  plot. 

MaL  "  Besides,  you  waste  the  treasure  of  your 
time  with  a  foolish  knight ;  "  — 

Sir  And.  That's  me,  I  warrant  you. 

MaL  —  "  one  Sir  Andrew." 8 

•  It  is  probable  that  this  word  was  used  to  express  acts  of 
Civility  and  reverence,  by  either  men  or  women  indiscriminately. 

7  In  The  Two  Gentlemen  of  Verona  Launce  says  :  "  Yet  I  am 
in  love  ;  but  a  team  of  horse  shall  not  pluck  that  from  me."     If 
locomotives  had  been  in  use  in  Shakespeare's  time,  commentators 
would  have  been  spared  no  little  perplexity  about  cars.     As  it  is, 
it  seems  impossible   to  give  any  satisfactory  explanation  of  the 
word ;  uo  car*  of  that  time  being  known  that  could  draw.     Tyr- 
wiitt  proposes  to  read  cables.  H. 

8  It  may  be  worthy  of  remark,  that  the  leading  ideas  of  Mal- 
volio,  in  his  humour  of  state,  bear  a  strong  resemblance  to  those 
ot"  Alnasfhar  in  The  Arabian  Nights.     Some  of  the  expressioui 


J91  TWELFTH    NIGHT,  ACT  II 

Sir  And.  I  knew  'twas  I  ;  for  many  do  call  me 
fool. 

Mai.  [Seeing  the  letter.]  What  employment  have 
we  here  1 

Fab.  Now  is  the  woodcock  near  the  gin. 

Sir  To.  O,  peace  !  and  the  spirit  of  humours  in- 
timate reading  aloud  to  him  ! 

Mai.  [Taking  up  the  letter.]  By  my  life,  this  is 
my  lady's  hand !  these  be  her  very  C's,  her  U's, 
and  her  T's ;  and  thus  makes  she  her  great  P's.  It 
is,  in  contempt  of  question,  her  hand. 

Sir  And.  Her  C's,  her  U's,  and  her  T's :  Why 
that  1 

Mai.  [Reads.]  "To  the  unknown  belov'd,  this, 
and  my  good  wishes  :  "  her  very  phrases  !  — By  your 
leave,  wax.  —  Soft  !  —  and  the  impressure  her  Lu- 
crece,  with  which  she  uses  to  seal :  'tis  my  lady. 
To  whom  should  this  be  ? 

Fab.  This  wins  him,  liver  and  all. 

Mai.  [Reads.] 

"  Jove  knows  I  love ; 

But  who  ? 
Lips  do  not  move : 
No  man  must  know." 

"  No  man  must  know."  —  What  follows  ?  the  num 
ber's  alter'd!  —  "No  man  must  know:" — If  this 
should  be  thee,  Malvolio  ! 

Sir  To.  Marry,  hang  thee,  brock  ! ' 

too  are  very  similar.  Many  Arabian  fictions  had  found  their  way 
into  obscure  Latin  and  French  books,  and  from  thence  into  Eng- 
lish ones,  long  before  any  version  of  The  Arabian  Nights  had 
appeared.  In  The  Dialogues  of  Creatures  Moralized,  printed 
early  in  the  sixteenth  century,  a  story  similar  to  that  of  Alnaschai 
is  related. 

•  That  is,  badger,  a  term  of  contempt.  So.  in  the  Merry  Con- 
ce!te<l  Jests  of  George  Peele  :  "  This  self-conceited  brock. 


«C    V.  OR    WHAT    YOU    WILL.  395 

Mai  [Reads.} 

"  I  may  command,  where  I  adore ; 

But  silence,  like  a  Lucrece  knife, 
With  bloodless  stroke  my  heart  doth  gore  • 
M,  O,  A,  I,  doth  sway  my  life." 

Fab.  A  fustian  riddle  ! 

Sir  To.  Excellent  wench,  say  I. 

MaL  "  M,  O,  A,  I,  doth  sway  my  life."  —  Nay, 
but  first,  let  me  see,  —  let  me  see,  —  let  me  see. 

Fab.  What  a  dish  of  poison  has  she  dress'd  him ! 

Sir  To.  And  with  what  wing  the  stannyel1* 
checks  at  it ! 

Mai.  "  I  may  command  where  I  adore."  Why, 
she  may  command  me :  I  serve  her ;  she  is  my 
lady.  Why,  this  is  evident  to  any  formal  capacity.11 
There  is  no  obstruction  in  this.  —  And  the  end,  — 
what  should  that  alphabetical  position  portend  1  if 
I  could  make  that  resemble  something  in  me, — 
Softly!  — M,  O,  A,  I.— 

Sir  To.  O  !  ay,  make  up  that :  —  He  is  now  ai 
a  cold  scent. 

Fab.  Sowter I2  will  cry  upon't,  for  all  this,  though 
it  be  as  rank  as  a  fox. 

MaL  M,  —  Malvolio  :  —  M,  —  why,  that  begins 
my  name. 

Fab.  Did  not  I  say,  he  would  work  it  out?  the 
cur  is  excellent  at  faults. 

MaL  M :  —  But  then  there  is  no  consonancy  in  the 

13  The  common  stone-hawk,  which  inhabits  old  buildings  and 
rocks.     To  check,  says  Latham  in  his  book  of  Falconry,  is, "  when 
crows,  rooks,  pies,  or  other  birds  coming  in  view  of  the  hawk,  she 
forsaketh  her  natural  flight  to  fly  at  them." 

11  That  is,  to  any  one  in  his  senses,  or  whose  capacity  is  not  out 
of/arm. 

14  Sowter  is  here  used  as  the  name  of  a  hound.      Sowterly  is 
often  employed  as  a  term  of  abuse  :  a  Sotcter  was  a  cobbler  or 
botcher ;  quasi  Sutor. 


390  TWELFTH    NIGHT,  ACT  U. 

sequel ;  that  suffers  under  probation  :  A  should  fol- 
low, but  O  does. 

Fab.  And  O  !  shall  end,  I  hope. 

Sir  To.  Ay,  or  I'll  cudgel  him,  and  make  him 
cry,  O  .' 

Mai   And  then  I  comes  behind. 

Fab  Ay,  an  you  had  any  eye  behind  you,  you 
might  see  more  detraction  at  your  heels,  than  for- 
tunes before  you. 

Mai.  M,  O,  A,  I :  —  This  simulation  is  not  as  the 
former ;  —  and  yet,  to  crush  this  a  little,  it  would 
bow  to  me,  for  every  one  of  these  letters  are  in  my 
name.  Soft !  here  follows  prose.  — 

"  If  this  fall  into  thy  hand,  revolve.  In  my  stars  I  am 
above  thee ;  but  be  not  afraid  of  greatness :  Some  are  born 
great,  some  achieve  greatness,  and  some  have  greatness 
thrust  upon  them.  Thy  fates  open  their  hands ;  let  thy 
blood  and  spirit  embrace  them.  And,  to  inure  thyself  to 
what  thou  art  like  to  be,  cast  thy  humble  slough,  and  appear 
fresh.  Be  opposite  with  a  kinsman,  surly  with  servants 
let  thy  tongue  tang  arguments  of  state ;  put  thyself  into 
the  trick  of  singularity :  She  thus  advises  thee,  that  sighs 
for  thee.  Remember  who  commended  thy  yellow  stock- 
ings ;  and  wish'd  to  see  thee  ever  cross-garter'd : 13  I  say, 
remember.  Go  to ;  thou  art  made,  if  thou  desirest  to  be 
so ;  if  not,  let  me  see  thee  a  steward  still,  the  fellow  of 
servants,  and  not  worthy  to  touch  fortune's  fingers.  Fare 
well.  She  that  would  alter  services  with  thee,  — 

THE  FORTUNATE  UNHAPPY." 

Daylight  and  champaign  discovers  not  more  : 
this  is  open.  I  will  be  proud,  I  will  read  politic 
authors,  I  will  baffle  Sir  Toby,  I  will  wash  off  gross 

13  A  fashion  once  prevailed  for  some  time  of  wearing  the  gar- 
ters crossed  on  the  leg.  It  should  be  remembered  that  rich  and 
expensive  garters  worn  below  the  knee  were  then  in  use.  Olivia's 
detestation  of  these  fashions  probably  arose  from  thinking  them 
cozcomical. 


SC.  V.  OR   WHAT    YOU    WILL.  397 

acquaintance,  I  will  be  point-device,14  the  very  man. 
I  do  not  now  fool  myself,  to  let  imagination  jade 
me  ;  for  every  reason  excites  to  this,  that  my  lady 
loves  me.  She  did  commend  my  yellow  stockings 
of  late,  she  did  praise  my  leg  being  cross-garter'd ; 
and  in  this  she  manifests  herself  to  my  love,  and, 
with  a  kind  of  injunction,  drives  me  to  these  habits 
of  her  liking.  I  thank  my  stars,  I  am  happy.  I 
will  be  strange,  stout,  in  yellow  stockings,  and  cross- 
garter'd,  even  with  the  swiftness  of  putting  on. 
Jove  and  my  stars  be  praised !  —  Here  is  yet  a 
postscript. 

"  Thou  canst  not  choose  but  know  who  I  am.  If  thou 
entertainest  my  love,  let  it  appear  in  thy  smiling;  thy 
smiles  become  thee  well :  therefore  in  my  presence  still 
smile,  dear  my  sweet,  I  pr'ythee." 

Jove,  I  thank  thee.  — I  will  smile ;  I  will  do  every 
thing  that  thou  wilt  have  me.  [Exit. 

Fab.  I  will  not  give  my  part  of  this  sport  for  a 
pension  of  thousands  to  be  paid  from  the  Sophy. 

Sir  To.  I  could  marry  this  wench  for  this  device. 

Sir  And.  So  could  I  too. 

Sir  To.  And  ask  no  other  dowry  with  her,  but 
such  another  jest. 

Enter  MARIA. 

Sir  And.  Nor  I  neither. 
Fab.  Here  comes  my  noble  gull-catcher. 
Sir  To.  Wilt  thou  set  thy  foot  o'  my  neck  ? 
Sir  And.  Or  o'  mine  either  7 

14  That  is,  exactly  the  same  in  every  particular.  The  etymology 
of  this  phrase  is  very  uncertain.  The  most  probable  seems  th« 
French  A  point  devisd.  "  A  poinct,"  sa^s  Nicot,  "  adverbe.  C'est 
en  ordre  et  estat  deu'et  convenable."  We  have  also  point  blank 
for  direct,  from  the  same  source. 


J*98  TWELFTH    NIOHT,  ACT  III. 

Sir  To.  Shall  I  play  my  freedom  at  tray-trip," 
and  become  thy  bond-slave  ? 

Sir  And.  I'faith,  or  I  either. 

Sir  To.  Why,  thou  hast  put  him  in  such  a  d^eam, 
ihat  when  the  image  of  it  leaves  him  he  must  run  mad. 

Mar.  Nay,  but  say  true ;  does  it  work  upon  him  1 

Sir  To.  Like  aqua-vitae  with  a  midwife. 

Mar.  If  you  will,  then,  see  the  fruits  of  the  sport, 
mark  his  first  approach  before  my  lady :  he  will 
come  to  her  in  yellow  stockings,  and  'tis  a  colour  she 
abhors ;  and  cross-garter'd,  a  fashion  she  detests : 
and  he  will  smile  upon  her,  which  will  now  be  so  » 
unsuitable  to  her  disposition,  being  addicted  to  a 
melancholy  as  she  is,  that  it  cannot  but  turn  him  into 
a  notable  contempt :  If  you  will  see  it,  follow  me. 

Sir  To.  To  the  gates  of  Tartar,  thou  most  excel- 
lent devil  of  wit ! 

Sir  And.  I'll  make  one  too.  [Exeunt. 


ACT  III. 

SCENE    I.     OLIVIA'S  Garden. 

Enter  VIOLA,  and  Clown  with  a  tabor. 

Vio.  Save  thee,  friend,  and  thy  music :  Dost  thou 
live  by  thy  tabor  1 ' 

15  Tyrwhitt  conjectured  that  tray-trip  was  the  game  of  draughts . 
and  Mr.  Kntght  produces  a  passage  from  Cecil's  Correspondence, 
that  favours  the  conjecture :  "  There  is  great  danger  of  being 
taken  sleepers  at  tray-trip,  if  the  king  sweep  suddenly."  A  n  an- 
cient satire  called  Machiavel's  Dog  gives  further  support : 
"  But,  leaving  cards,  let's  go  to  dice  awhile, 

To  passage,  treitrippe,  hazard,  or  mum-chance." 
Play  my  freedom  means  play/or  my  freedom ;  that  is,  stake  it.  H. 
1  Tarleton  in  a  print  before  his  Jests,  4to.  1611,  is  represented 


SC.  I.  OR    WHAT    YOU    WILT,.  399 

do.  No,  sir ;  I  live  by  the  Church. 

Via.  An  thou  a  Churchman  ? 

Clo.  No  such  matter,  sir :  I  do  live  by  the  Church ; 
for  I  do  live  at  my  house,  and  my  house  doth  stand 
by  the  Church. 

Via.  So  thou  mayst  say,  the  king  lies  by  a  beg- 
gar, if  a  beggar  dwell  near  him ;  or,  the  Church 
stands  by  thy  tabor,  if  thy  tabor  stand  by  the  Church. 

Clo.  You  have  said,  sir.  —  To  see  this  age  !  — A 
sentence  is  but  a  cheveril  glove  *  to  a  good  wit :  How 
quickly  the  wrong  side  may  be  turn'd  outward ! 

Via.  Nay,  that's  certain:  they,  that  dally  nicely 
with  words,  may  quickly  make  them  wanton. 

Clo.  I  would,  therefore,  my  sister  had  had  no 
name,  sir. 

Vio.  Why,  man  ? 

Clo.  Why,  sir,  her  name's  a  word ;  and  to  dally 
with  that  word,  might  make  my  sister  wanton  :  But, 
indeed,  words  are  very  rascals,  since  bonds  dis- 
grac'd  them. 

Vio.  Thy  reason,  man  ? 

Clo.  Troth,  sir,  I  can  yield  you  none  without 
words ;  and  words  are  grown  so  false,  I  am  loth  to 
prove  reason  with  them. 

Vio.  1  warrant  thou  art  a  merry  fellow,  and  carest 
for  nothing. 

Clo.  Not  so,  sir ;  I  do  care  for  something ;  but 
in  my  conscience,  sir,  I  do  not  care  for  you :  if  that 
be  to  care  for  nothing,  sir,  I  would  it  would  make 
you  invisible. 

Vio.  Art  not  thou  the  lady  Olivia's  fool  1 

Clo.  No,  indeed,  sir  ;  the  lady  Olivia  has  no  folly . 

with  a  Tabor.     But  the  instrument  is  found  in  the  hands  of  fools, 
long  before  the  time  of  Shakespeare. 

*  That  is,  a  kid  glove,  from  the  French  chenreaat.     Ray  has  • 
proverb    "He  hath  a  conscience  like  a  cheverel's  skin." 


400  TWELFTH    NIGHT,  ACT  III. 

she  will  keep  no  fool,  sir,  till  she  be  married;  and 
fools  are  as  like  husbands,  as  pilchards  are  to  her- 
rings ;  the  husband's  the  bigger :  I  am,  indeed,  not 
her  fool,  but  her  corrupter  of  words. 

Via.  I  saw  thee  late  at  the  count  Orsino's. 

Clo.  Foolery,  sir,  does  walk  about  the  orb,  like 
the  sun;  it  shines  every  where.  I  would  be  sorry, 
sir,  but  the  fool  should  be  as  oft  with  your  master, 
as  with  my  mistress :  I  think  I  saw  your  wisdom 
there. 

Via.  Nay,  an  thou  pass  upon  me,  I'll  no  more 
with  thee.  Hold  ;  there's  expenses  for  thee. 

Clo.  Now  Jove,  in  his  next  commodity  of  hair, 
send  thee  a  beard  ! 

Via.  By  my  troth,  I'll  tell  thee :  I  am  almost 
sick  for  one ;  though  I  would  not  have  it  grow  on 
my  chin.  Is  thy  lady  within  ? 

Clo.  Would  not  a  pair  of  these  have  bred,  sir  ? 4 

Via.  Yes,  being  kept  together,  and  put  to  use. 

Clo.  I  would  play  lord  Pandarus  of  Phrygia,  sir, 
to  bring  a  Cressida  to  this  Troilus. 

Vio.  I  understand  you,  sir :  'tis  well  begg'd. 

Clo.  The  matter,  I  hope,  is  not  great,  sir;  beg- 
ging but  a  beggar  :  Cressida  was  a  beggar.4  My 
lady  is  within,  sir.  I  will  conster  6  to  them  whence 
you  come ;  who  you  are,  and  what  you  would,  are 

*  That  is,  two  pieces  of  money,  instead  of  the  one  Viola  had 
given  him.  H. 

4  In  Henryson's  Testament  of  Cresseid  she  is  thus  spoken  to 
"  Great  penurye  thou  shall  suffer,  and  as  a  beggar  dye."  And 
again: 

"  Thou  shalt  go  begging  from  hous  to  hous, 
With  cuppe  and  clapper  like  a  Lazarous." 

*  So  in  the  original.     Conster  is  the  old  form  of  construe,  often 
used  by  the  writers  of  Shakespeare's  time,  and  occasionally  even 
in  the  time  of  Pope.     So  that  the  received   emendation  is  no( 
properly  admissible.  H. 


SC.  I.  OR    WHAT    YOU    WILL.  4UI 

out  of  my  welkin :  I  might  say,  element ;  but  the 

word  is  over-worn.  [Exit. 

Via.    This    fellow's   wise    enough    to    play    the 

fool; 

And,  to  do  that  well,  craves  a  kind  of  wit : 
He  must  observe  their  mood  on  whom  he  jests, 
The  quality  of  persons,  and  the  time ; 
And,  like  the  haggard,6  check  at  every  feather 
That  comes  before  his  eye.     This  is  a  practice 
As  full  of  labour  as  a  wise  man's  art : 
For  folly,  that  he  wisely  shows,  is  fit ; 
But  wise  men's  folly  shown  quite  taints  their  wit. " 

Enter  Sir  TOBY  BELCH  and  Sir  ANDREW  AGUE- 
CHEEK. 

Sir  To.  Save  you,  gentleman. 
Vio.  And  you,  sir. 
Sir  And.  Dieu  vous  garde,  monsieur. 
Vio.  Et  vous  aussi :  votre  serviteur. 
Sir  And.  I  hope,  sir,  you  are ;  and  I  am  yours. 
Sir  To.  Will  you  encounter  the  house  1  my  niece 
is  desirous  you  should  enter,  if  your  trade  be  to  her. 

'  A  haggard  is  a  wild  or  untrained  hawk,  which  flies,  checks,  at 
all  birds,  or  birds  of  every  featlier,  indiscriminately.  "The  stan- 
nyel  checks  at  it "  occurs  in  the  last  scene  of  the  preceding  act. 
See  note  10.  H. 

7  That  is,  "  wise  men's  folly,  being  or  having  fallen."  The 
original  reads,  —  "  But  wisemens  folly  falne,  quite  taint  their  wit." 
We  concur  in  the  reading  proposed  by  Mr.  Collier  and  endorsed 
by  Mr.  Verplanck.  The  usual  reading  is,  "  But  wise  men,  folly- 
fallen,  quite  taint  their  wit;"  which  we  are  not  a  little  puzzled  to 
understand.  The  meaning  of  the  passage,  as  we  give  it,  seems 
to  be :  The  fool,  that  is,  the  professional  fool,  thrives  by  folly, 
because  folly  is  his  art ;  but  the  involuntary  folly  of  wise  men, 
having  lost  its  value,  brings  their  wit  into  bad  odour ;  on  much 
the  same  principle  as, —  "A  liar  will  not  be  believed  when  be 
speaks  the  truth."  « 


4055  TWELFTH    NIGHT,  ACT  III 

Vio.  I  am  bound  to  your  niece,  sir  :  I  mean,  she 
is  the  list 8  of  my  voyage. 

Sir  To.  Taste  9  your  legs,  sir ;  put  them  to  motion. 

Vio.  My  legs  do  better  understand  me,  sir,  than 
I  understand  what  you  mean  by  bidding  me  taste 
my  legs. 

Sir  To.  I  mean,  to  go,  sir,  to  enter. 

Vio.  I  will  answer  you  with  gait  and  entrance : 
But  we  are  prevented.10 

Enter  OLIVIA  and  MARIA. 

Most  excellent  accomplish'd  lady,  the  heavens  rain 
odours  on  you  ! 

Sir  And.  That  youth's  a  rare  courtier  !  "  Rain 
odours  ! "  well. 

Vio.  My  matter  hath  no  voice,  lady,  but  to  your 
own  most  pregnant ' '  and  vouchsafed  ear. 

Sir  And.  "  Odours,"  "  pregnant,"  and  "  vouch- 
safed "  :  —  I'll  get  'em  all  three  all  ready. 

OK.  Let  the  garden  door  be  shut,  and  leave  me 
to  my  hearing. 

[Exeunt  Sir  To.,  Sir  AND.,  and  MAR 
Give  me  your  hand,  sir. 

Vio.  My  duty,  madam,  and  most  humble  service. 

OK.  What  is  your  name  1 

Vio.  Cesario  is  your  servant's  name,  fair  princess. 

OIL  My  servant,  sir  ?    'Twas  never  merry  world, 
Since  lowly  feigning  was  call'd  compliment : 
You  arc  servant  to  the  count  Orsino,  youth. 

8  Lists  again  occurs  in  Measure  for  Measure  in  the  sense  of 
bounds  or  limits.  H. 

8  Taste  was  sometimes  used  by  the  old  poets  in  the  sense  of 
try.  Thus  in  Chapman's  Odyssey  :  "  He  now  began  to  taste  tha 
bow."  H. 

10  That  is,  we  are  anticipated.     So  in  the  119tb  Psalm,  "Min« 
ev*s  prevent  the  night-watches." 

11  That  is,  ~eady,  apprehensive. 


SC.  I.  OR    WHAT    YOU    WILL.  403 

Via.  And   he   is   yours,  and  his  must   needs  be 

yours  : 
Your  servant's  servant  is  your  servant,  madam. 

OIL  For  him,  I  think  not  on  him :  for  his  thoughts, 
'Would  they  were  blanks,  rather  than  fill'd  with  me  ! 

Via.  Madam,  I  come  to  whet  your  gentle  thoughts 
On  his  behalf.  — 

OK.  O !  by  your  leave,  I  pray  you : 

I  bade  you  never  speak  again  of  him  ; 
But,  would  you  undertake  another  suit, 
I  had  rather  hear  you  to  solicit  that, 
Than  music  from  the  spheres. 

Vio.  Dear  lady,  — 

OIL  Give  me  leave,  'beseech  you  :  I  did  send, 
After  the  last  enchantment  you  did  here, 
A  ring  in  chase  of  you  ;  so  did  I  abuse 
Myself,  my  servant,  and,  I  fear  me,  you; 
Under  your  hard  construction  must  I  sit, 
To  force  that  on  you,  in  a  shameful  cunning, 
Which  you  knew  none  of  yours  :    What  might  you 

think  ? 

Have  you  not  set  mine  honour  at  the  stake, 
And  baited  it  with  all  the  unmuzzled  thoughts 
That  tyrannous  heart  can  think  ?      To  one  of  youi 

receiving  IS 

Enough  is  shown ;  a  Cyprus,13  not  a  bosom, 
Hides  my  heart :     So,  let  me  hear  you  speak. 

Vio.  I  pity  you. 

OIL  That's  a  degree  to  love. 

Vio.  No,  not  a  grise ;  u  for  'tis  a  vulgar  proof 
That  very  oft  we  pity  enemies. 

OIL  Why,  then,  methinks,  'tis  time  to  smile  again 

11  Quick  apprehension. 

13  That  is,  a  thin  veil  of  crape  or  cypnu 

l*  Step  :  from  the  French  grez 


404  TWELFTH    NIGHT,  ACT  III. 

0  world,  how  apt  the  poor  are  to  be  proud  ! 
If  one  should  be  a  prey,  how  much  the  better 
To  fall  before  the  lion  than  the  wolf? 

[Clock  strikes. 

The  clock  upbraids  me  with  the  waste  of  time.  — 
Be  not  afraid,  good  youth,  I  will  not  have  you  : 
And  yet,  when  wit  and  youth  is  come  to  harvest, 
Your  wife  is  like  to  reap  a  proper  man  : 
There  lies  your  way,  due  west. 

Via.  Then  westward  hoe  !  M 

Grace  and  good  disposition  'tend  your  ladyship  1 
Vou'll  nothing,  madam,  to  my  lord  by  me  ? 

OIL  Stay: 

1  pr'ythee,  tell  me  what  thou  think'st  of  me. 

Via.  That  you  do  think  you  are  not  what  you  are. 

OK.  If  I  think  so,  I  think  the  same  of  you. 

Via.  Then  think  you  right :  I  am  not  what  I  am 

OH.  I  would  you  were  as  I  would  have  you  be  ! 

Via.  Would  it  be  better,  madam,  than  I  am, 
[  wish  it  might ;  for  now  I  am  your  fool. 

OIL  [Aside.]    O !   what   a  deal  of  scorn   looks 

beautiful 

In  the  contempt  and  anger  of  his  lip ! 
A  murderous  guilt  shows  not  itself  more  soon 
Than  love  that  would  seem  hid :    love's  night  i& 

noon.  — 

Cesario,  by  the  roses  of  the  spring, 
By  maidhood,  honour,  truth,  and  every  thing, 
I  love  thee  so,  that,  maugre  I6  all  thy  pride, 
Nor  wit,  nor  reason,  can  my  passion  hide. 
Do  not  extort  thy  reasons  from  this  clause, 
For,  that  I  woo,  thou  therefore  hast  no  cause ; 

u  An  exclamation  used  by  watermen  on  the  Thames.  West- 
ward ho,  Northward  ho,  and  Eastward  ho,  are  also  used  as  title* 
of  plajs.  H 

18  In  spite  of:  from  the  French  m"lgrd. 


SC.  II.  OR    WHAT    YOU    WILL. 


405 


But  rather,  reason  thus  with  reason  fetter  : 

Love  sought  is  good,  but  given  unsought  is  better. 

Vio.    By  innocence  I  swear,  and  by  my  youth, 
I  have  one  heart,  one  bosom,  and  one  truth, 
And  that  no  woman  has ;  nor  never  none 
Shall  mistress  be  of  it,  save  I  alone. 
And  so  adieu,  good  madam :  never  more 
Will  I  my  master's  tears  to  you  deplore. 

OK.  Yet  come  again  ;  for  thou,  perhaps,  niayst 

move 
That  heart,  which  now  abhors,  to  like  his  love. 

[Exeunt. 

SCENE  II.     A  Room  in  OLIVIA'S  House. 

Enter  Sir  TOBY  BELCH,  Sir  ANDREW  AGUE-CHEEK, 
and  FABIAN. 

Sir  And.  No,  faith,  I'll  not  stay  a  jot  longer. 

Sir  To.  Thy  reason,  dear  venom ;  give  thy 
reason. 

Fab.  You  must  needs  yield  your  reason,  Sir 
Andrew. 

Sir  And.  Marry,  I  saw  your  niece  do  more  fa- 
vours to  the  Count's  serving  man,  than  ever  she  be- 
etow'd  upon  me :  I  saw't  i'the  orchard. 

Sir  To.  Did  she  see  thee  the  while,  old  boy  7  tell 
me  that. 

Sir  And.  As  plain  as  I  see  you  now. 

Fab.  This  was  a  great  argument  of  love  in  her 
toward  you. 

Sir  And.  'Slight  !  will  you  make  an  ass  o'me  1 

Fab.  I  will  prove  it  legitimate,  sir,  upon  the  oaths 
of  judgment  and  reason. 

Sir  To.  And  they  have  been  grand  jury-men 
since  before  Noah  was  a  sailor. 


4U6  TWELFTH    NIGHT,  ACT  III- 

Fab.  She  did  show  favour  to  the  youth  in  your 
sight,  only  to  exasperate  you,  to  awake  your  do- 
mouse  valour,  to  put  fire  in  your  heart,  and  brim- 
stone in  your  liver :  You  should  then  have  accosted 
her ;  and  with  some  excellent  jests,  fire-new  from 
the  mint,  you  should  have  bang'd  the  youth  into 
dumbness.  This  was  look'd  for  at  your  hand,  and 
this  was  balk'd  :  the  double  gilt  of  this  opportu- 
nity you  let  time  wash  off,  and  you  are  now  sail'd 
into  the  north  of  my  lady's  opinion ;  where  you  will 
hang  like  an  icicle  on  a  Dutchman's  beard,  unless 
you  do  redeem  it  by  some  laudable  attempt,  either 
of  valour,  or  policy. 

Sir  And.  An't  be  any  way,  it  must  be  with  val 
our  ;  for  policy  I  hate :  I  had  as  lief  be  a  Brownist ' 
as  a  politician. 

Sir  To.  Why,  then  build  me  thy  fortunes  upon  the 
basis  of  valour.  Challenge  me  the  Count's  youth  to 
fight  with  him  ;  hurt  him  in  eleven  places :  my  niece 
shall  take  note  of  it ;  and  assure  thyself,  there  is  no 
love-broker  in  the  world  can  more  prevail  in  man's 
commendation  with  woman,  than  report  of  valour. 

Fab.  There  is  no  way  but  this,  Sir  Andrew. 


1  The  Brownists  were  one  of  the  Puritan  sects  that  arose  during 
the  reign  of  Elizabeth  ;  so  called  from  Robert  Brown,  their  found- 
er, "  who,"  says  Mr.  Collier,  "  after  separating  himself  from  the 
Church,  and  causing  much  confusion  in  it  for  about  ten  years, 
returned  to  it  in  1589  or  1590,  and  died  in  1630."  Like  others  of 
their  kind,  their  leading  purpose  was  to  prevent  the  abuse  of  cer- 
tain things,  such  as  laws,  by  uprooting  the  use  of  them.  Attempt- 
ing to  reduce  the  impracticable  to  practice,  their  wisdom  made 
them  an  object  of  ridicule  even  till  after  the  Restoration.  Mal- 
volio  appears  to  have  been  intended  partly  as  a  satire  on  the 
Puritans  in  general ;  they  being  especially  strenuous  at  the  time 
this  play  was  written  to  have  restrictions  set  upon  playing.  But 
there  had  been  a  deep-seated  grudge  between  the  Puritans  and 
the  Dramatists  ever  since  Nash  put  out  the  eyes  of  Martin  Mar 
prelate  with  salt.  H 


SC.  11.  OR    WHAT    YOU    WILL.  407 

Sir  And.  Will  either  of  you  bear  me  a  challenge 
to  him? 

Sir,  To.  Go,  write  it  in  a  martial  hand ;  be  curst ' 
and  brief;  it  is  no  matter  how  witty,  so  it  be  elo- 
quent, and  full  of  invention  :  taunt  him  with  the 
license  of  ink  :  if  thou  thou'st3  him  some  ihrice,  it 
shall  not  be  amiss ;  and  as  many  lies  as  will  lie  in  thy 
sheet  of  paper,  although  the  sheet  were  big  enough 
for  the  bed  of  Ware  *  in  England,  set  'em  down  ; 
go,  about  it.  Let  there  be  gall  enough  in  thy  ink  ; 
though  thou  write  with  a  goose-pen,  no  matter  r 
About  it. 

Sir  And.  Where  shall  I  find  you  1 

Sir  To.  We'll  call  thee  at  the  cubicuk : 8    Go. 

[Exit  Sir  ANDREW 

Fab.  This  is  a  dear  mannikin  to  you,  Sir  Toby. 

Sir,  To.  I  have  been  dear  to  him,  lad ;  some  two 
thousand  strong,  or  so. 

1   Curst  is  cross,  snappish. 

3  This  has  been  generally  thought  an  allusion  to  Coke's  unpu 
dent  and  abusive  thouing  of  Sir  Walter  Raleigh  at  his  trial  ;  but 
it  has  been  ascertained  that  the  play  was  acted  a  year  and  a  half 
before  that  trial  took  place.  And  indeed  it  had  been  no  insult  to 
thou  Sir  Walter,  unless  there  were  some  preexisting  custom  or 
sentiment  to  make  it  so.  What  that  custom  was.  may  be  seen  by 
the  following  passage  from  the  Rule  of  St.  Bridget :  "  None  of 
byghenesse  schal  thou  another  in  spekynge,  but  eche  schal  spekc 
reverently  to  other,  the  younger  namely  to  the  elder."  One  of  the 
authors  of  "  Guesses  at  Truth  "  has  a  very  learned  and  ingenious 
essay  on  the  subject,  wherein  he  quotes  the  following  from  a  book 
published  in  1661,  by  George  Fox  the  Quaker  :  «  For  this  thou 
and  thee  was  a  sore  cut  to  proud  flesh,  and  them  that  sought  self- 
honour  ;  who.  though  they  would  say  it  to  God  and  Christ,  would 
not  endure  to  have  it  said  to  themselves.  So  that  we  were  often 
beaten  and  abused,  and  sometimes  in  danger  of  our  lives,  for 
using  those  words  to  some  proud  men,  who  would  say, —  What, 
you  ill-bred  cloion,  do  you  thou  me1"  H. 

*  This  curious  piece  of  furniture  was  a  few  years  since  still  in 
being  at  one  of  the  inns  in  that  town.     It  was  sported  to  b« 
twelve  feet  square,  and  capable  of  holding  twenty-four  persons 

*  Chamber 


408  TWELFTH    NIGHT,  ACT  III 

Fab.  We  shall  have  a  rare  letter  from  him  :  but 
you'll  not  deliver  it. 

Sir  To.  Never  trust  rae  then !  and  by  all  means 
stir  on  the  youth  to  an  answer.  I  think,  oxen  and 
wainropes  cannot  hale  them  together.  For  Andrew, 
if  he  were  open'd,  and  you  find  so  much  blood  in 
his  liver  as  will  clog  the  foot  of  a  flea,  I'll  eat  the 
rest  of  the  anatomy. 

Fab.  And  his  opposite,  the  youth,  bears  in  liiu 
visage  no  great  presage  of  cruelty. 

Enter  MARIA. 

Sir  To.  Look,  where  the  youngest  wren  of  nine 
comes. 

Mar.  If  you  desire  the  spleen,  and  will  laugh 
yourselves  into  stitches,  follow  me  :  yond'  gull  Mal- 
volio  is  turned  heathen,  a  very  renegado ;  for  there 
is  no  Christian,  that  means  to  be  saved  by  believing 
rightly,  can  ever  believe  such  impossible  passages 
of  grossness.  He's  in  yellow  stockings. 

Sir  To.  And  cross-garter'd  1 

Mar.  Most  villanously ;  like  a  pedant  that  keeps 
a  school  i'the  Church.  —  I  have  dogg'd  him,  like  his 
murderer  :  He  does  obey  every  point  of  the  letter 
that  I  dropp'd  to  betray  him.  He  does  srnile  his 
face  into  more  lines  than  are  in  the  new  map,  with 
the  augmentation  of  the  Indies  : 7  you  have  not  seen 

6  Alluding  to  the  small  stature  of  Maria.     Sir  Toby  elsewhere 
calls  her  "  the  little  villain,"  and  Viola  ironically  speaks  of  her  as 
"  giant."     The  expression  in  the  text  seems  to  have  been  prover- 
bial ;  the  wren  generally  laying  nine  or  ten  eggs,  and   the  last 
hatched  being  the  smallest  of  the  brood.     The  original  has  "wren 
vfmine:"  but  Theobald's  emendation  is  generally  received.    H 

7  Alluding  to  a  Map  engraved  for  the  English  translation  of 
Linschoten's  Voyage,  published  in  1598.     This  map  is  multilineal 
in  the  extreme,  and  is  the  first  in  which  the  Eastern  Islands  are 
include*! 


»<,'.   III.  OR    WHAT    YOU    WILL.  409 

such  a  thing  as  'tis ;  I  can  hardly  forbear  hurling 

things  at  him.      I  know  my  lady  will  strike  him  : 

if  she  do,  he'll  smile,  and  take't  for  a  great  favour. 

Sir  To.  Come,  bring  us,  bring  us  where  he  is. 

[Exeunt. 
SCENE    III.     A  Street. 

Enter  ANTONIO  and  SEBASTIAN. 

Seb.  I  would  not,  by  my  will,  have  troubled  you  ; 
But,  since  you  make  your  pleasure  of  your  pains, 
I  will  no  further  chide  you. 

Ant.  I  could  not  stay  behind  you :  my  desire, 
More  sharp  than  filed  steel,  did  spur  me  forth  ; 
And  not  all  love  to  see  you,  (though  so  much 
As  might  have  drawn  one  to  a  longer  voyage,) 
But  jealousy  what  might  befall  your  travel, 
Being  skilless  in  these  parts ;  which,  to  a  stranger, 
Unguided  and  unfriended,  often  prove 
Rough  and  unhospitable  :  My  willing  love, 
The  rather  by  these  arguments  of  fear, 
Set  forth  in  your  pursuit. 

Seb.  My  kind  Antonio, 

I  can  no  other  answer  make,  but  thanks, 
And  thanks  :  and  very  oft  good  turns 
Are  shuffled  off  with  such  uncurrent  pay  : 
But,  were  my  worth,2  as  is  my  conscience,  firm, 

1  We  concur  with  Mr.  Knignt  in  restoring  this  line  as  it  stands 
in  the  original.  Mr.  Collier  puts  the  colon  after  ever,  making-  no 
other  change.  The  usual  reading  is  : 

"  And  thanks,  and  ever  thanks  :  often  good  turns,"  &c. 
The  alteration  was  made  by  Steevens,  who  could  not  bear  that 
the  Poet  should  have  any  lines  defective  in  measure.  Setting  this 
aside,  (if  it  be  worth  the  setting  aside,)  there  seems  to  be  no  diffi- 
culty in  the  passage  as  it  is,  unless  one  be  bent  upon  critical  dis- 
covery. The  meaning  of  course  is,  —  "  It  is  always  common  fa 
good  turns  to  be,"  &-c.  H 

*  Wealth,  or  fortune 


410  TWELFTH    NIGHT,  \CT  III 

You  should  find  better  dealing.     What's  to  do  ? 
Shall  we  go  see  the  reliques  of  this  town  ? 

Ant.     To-morrow,  sir :    best  first    go  see  youi 
lodging. 

Seb.  I  am  not  weary,  and  'tis  long  to  night : 
I  pray  you,  let  us  satisfy  our  eyes 
With  the  memorials,  and  the  things  of  fame, 
That  do  renown  this  city. 

Ant.  'Would  you'd  pardon  me  ; 

I  do  not  without  danger  walk  these  streets : 
Once,  in  a  sea-fight  'gainst  the  Count  his  galleys, 
I  did  some  service  ;  of  such  note,  indeed, 
That,  were  I  ta'en  here,  it  would  scarce  be  answer'd. 

Seb.    Belike,  you    slew    great    number    of   his 
people. 

Ant.  The  offence  is  not  of  such  a  bloody  nature  ; 
Albeit  the  quality  of  the  time,  and  quarrel, 
Might  well  have  given  us  bloody  argument. 
It  might  have  since  been  answer'd  in  repaying 
What  we  took  from  them  ;  which,  for  traffic's  sake, 
Most  of  our  city  did  :  only  myself  stood  out ; 
For  which,  if  I  be  lapsed  in  this  place, 
I  shall  pay  dear. 

Seb.  Do  not,  then,  walk  too  open, 

Ant.  It  doth  not  fit  me.     Hold,  sir ;  here's  my 

purse  : 

In  the  south  suburbs,  at  the  Elephant, 
Is  best  to  lodge :  I  will  bespeak  our  diet, 
Whiles  you  beguile  the  time,  and  feed  your  knowl- 
edge, 
With  viewing  of  the  town  :  there  shall  you  have  me. 

Seb.  Why  I  your  purse  ? 

Ant.  Haply,  your  eye  shall  light  upon  some  toy 
You  have  desire  to  purchase ;  and  your  store, 
f  think,  is  not  for  idle  markets,  sir. 


aC.   IV.  OR    WHAT    YOU    WILL.  411 

Seb.  I'll  be  your  purse-bearer,  and  leave  you  for 
an  hour. 

Ant.  To  the  Elephant.  — 
Seb.  I  do  remember. 

[Exeunt, 

SCENE   IV.     OLIVIA'S  Garden. 

Enter  OLIVIA  and  MARIA. 

OH.  I  have  sent  after  him  :  He  says  he'll  come. 
How  shall  I  feast  him  ?  what  bestow  on  him  ? 
For  youth  is  bought  more  oft  than  begg'd,  or  bor 

row'd. 

I  speak  too  loud.  — 

Where  is  Malvolio  ?  —  he  is  sad,  and  civil,1 
A.nd  suits  well  for  a  servant  with  my  fortunes  :  — 
Where  is  Malvolio  ? 

Mar.  He's  coming,  madam ;  but  in  very  strange 
manner.  He  is  sure  possess'd,  madam. 

OK.  Why,  what's  the  matter  1  does  he  rave  ? 

Mar.  No,  madam,  he  does  nothing  but  smile : 
vour  ladyship  were  best  to  have  some  guard  about 
you,  if  he  come  ;  for  sure  the  man  is  tainted  in's 
wits. 

OIL  Go  call  him  hither.  —  I  am  as  mad  as  he, 
[f  sad  and  merry  madness  equal  be.  — 
» 

Enter  MALVOLIO. 

How  now,  Malvolio  1 

Mai.  Sweet  lady,  ho,  ho.       [Smiles  fantastically. 

OK.   Smil'st  thou  1 
1  sent  for  thee  upon  a  sad  occasion. 

MaL  Sad,   lady?    I   could  be   sad.     This  does 

1  That  is,  serious  and  grave,  cr  solemn.  Thus  in  Romeo  and 
Juliet :  '•  Come,  civil  night,  thou  sober-suited  matron  all  in  Mack.' 


4J2  TWELFTH    NIGHT,  ACT   III 

make  some  obstruction  in  the  blood,  this  cross-gar- 
tering :  but  what  of  that  1  if  it  please  the  eye  of 
one,  it  is  with  me  as  the  very  true  sonnet  is . 
"  Please  one,  and  please  all." 

OIL  Why,  how  dost  thou,  man  1  what  is  the 
matter  with  thee  ? 

Mai.  Not  black  in  my  mind,  though  yellow  in 
my  legs  :  It  did  come  to  his  hands,  and  commands 
shall  be  executed.  1  think  we  do  know  the  sweet 
Roman  hand. 

OK.  Wilt  thou  go  to  bed,  Malvolio  1 

Mai.  To  bed  ?  ay,  sweetheart ;  and  I'll  come 
to  thee. 

OIL  God  comfort  thee  !  Why  dost  thou  smile  so, 
and  kiss  thy  hand  so  oft  1 

Mar.  How  do  you,  Malvolio  ? 

Mai.  At  your  request !  Yes ;  nightingales  answer 
daws. 

Mar.  Why  appear  you  with  this  ridiculous  bold- 
ness before  my  lady  1 

Mai.  "  Be  not  afraid  of  greatness  : "  —  'Twos 
well  writ. 

OIL  What  meanest  thou  by  that,  Malvolio  1 

Mai.  "  Some  are  born  great,"  — 

OIL  Ha? 

Mai.  —  "  some  achieve  greatness,"  — 

OIL   What  say'st  thou  ? 

Mai.  —  "  and  some  have  greatness  thrust  upon 
them." 

OIL  Heaven  restore  thee  ! 

Mai.  "  Remember,  who  commended  thy  yellow 
stockings ; "  — 

OIL    My  yellow  stockings  ? 

Mai.  —  "  and  wish'd  to  see  thee  cross-garter'd," 

OK.  Cross-a'arter'd  1 


SC.   IV.  OR    WHAT    YOU    WILL,.  413 

Mai.  "  Go  to  :  thou  art  ma^de,  if  thou  desirest 
to  be  so  ;  "  — 

OIL  Am  I  made  1 

Mai  —  "  if  not,  let  me  see  thee  a  servant  still." 

OIL  Why,  this  is  very  midsummer  madness.* 

Enter  Servant. 

Ser.  Madam,  the  young  gentleman  of  the  count 
Orsino's  is  return'd  ;  I  could  hardly  entreat  liim 
back  :  he  attends  your  ladyship's  pleasure. 

OIL  I'll  come  to  him.  [Exit  Servant. 1  Good 
Maria,  let  this  fellow  be  look'd  to.  Where's  my 
cousin  Toby  1  Let  some  of  my  people  have  a 
special  care  of  him :  I  would  not  have  him  mis- 
carry for  the  half  of  my  dowry. 

[Exeunt  OLIVIA  and  MARIA. 

Mai.  Oh,  ho  !  do  you  come  near  me  now  1  no 
worse  man  than  Sir  Toby  to  look  to  me  ?  This  con- 
curs directly  with  the  letter :  she  sends  him  on  pur- 
pose, that  I  may  appear  stubborn  to  him ;  for  she 
jicites  me  to  that  in  the  letter.  "  Cast  thy  humble 
slough,"  says  she ;  "  be  opposite  with  a  kinsman, 
surly  with  servants;  —  let  thy  tongue  tang  with 
arguments  of  state ;  —  put  thyself  into  the  trick  of 
singularity  :  "  —  and,  consequently,  sets  down  the 
manner  how ;  as,  a  sad  face,  a  reverend  carriage,  a 
slow  tongue,  in  the  habit  of  some  sir  of  note,  and  so 
forth.  I  have  lim'd  her ; 3  but  it  is  Jove's  doing, 
and  Jove  make  me  thankful  !  And,  when  she  went 
away  now,  "  Let  this  fellow  be  look'd  to  :  "  Fel- 
low !  not  Malvolio,  nor  after  my  degree,  but  fellow. 

*  "  'Tis  midsummer  moon  with  you,"  was  a  proverbial  phrase, 
signifying  you  are  mad.  It  was  an  ancient  opinion  that  hot 
weather  affected  the  brain. 

3  Caught  her  as  a  bird  with  birdlime. 


414  TWELFTH    NIGHT,  ACT    II) 

Why,  every  thing  adheres  together  ;  that  no  drain 
of  a  scruple,  no  scruple  of  a  scruple,  no  obstacle, 
no  incredulous  or  unsafe  circumstance,  —  What  can 
be  said  1  Nothing  that  can  be  can  come  between  me 
and  the  full  prospect  of  my  hopes.  Well,  Jove,  not 
I,  is  the  doer  of  this,  and  he  is  to  be  thanked. 

Re-enter  MARIA,  with  Sir  TOBY  BELCH  and  FABIAW. 

Sir  To.  Which  way  is  he,  in  the  name  of  sanc- 
tity 1  If  all  the  devils  in  hell  be  drawn  in  little,  and 
Legion  himself  possess'd  him,  yet  I'll  speak  to  him. 

Fab.  Here  he  is,  here  he  is :  —  How  is't  with 
you,  sir  1  how  is't  with  you,  man  1 

Mai.  Go  off;  I  discard  you  :  let  me  enjoy  my 
private  ;  go  off. 

Mar.  Lo,  how  hollow  the  fiend  speaks  within 
him !  did  not  I  tell  you  ?  —  Sir  Toby,  my  lady  prays 
you  to  have  a  care  of  him. 

Mai.  All,  ha !  does  she  so  1 

Sir  To.  Go  to,  go  to :  peace !  peace !  we  must 
deal  gently  with  him  ;  let  me  alone.  How  do  you, 
Malvolio  7  how  is't  with  you  1  What,  man !  defy 
the  devil :  consider,  he's  an  enemy  to  mankind. 

Mai.  Do  you  know  what  you  say  1 

Mar.  La  you  !  an  you  speak  ill  of  the  devil, 
how  he  takes  it  at  heart !  Pray  God,  he  be  not  be- 
witch'd  ! 

Fab.  Cany  his  water  to  the  wise  woman. 

Mar.  Marry,  and  it  shall  be  done  to-morrow 
morning,  if  I  live.  My  lady  would  not  lose  him  for 
more  than  I'll  say. 

Mai.  How  now,  mistress  1 

Mar.  O  lord ! 

Sir  To.  Pr'ythee,  hold  thy  peace  ;  this  is  not  the 
<4ray  :  Do  you  not  see  you  move  him  ?  let  me  alone 
with  him 


SC.  IV  OR    WHAT    YOU    WILL.  415 

Fab.  No  way  but  gentleness ;  gently,  gently  : 
the  fiend  is  rough,  and  will  not  be  roughly  us'd. 

Sir  To.  Why,  how  now,  my  bawcock  1  how  dost 
thou,  chuck  ? 

Mai.  Sir? 

Sir  To.  Ay,  Biddy,  come  with  me.  What,  man  ! 
'tis  not  for  gravity  to  play  at  cherry-pit 4  with  Satan: 
Hang  him,  foul  collier  !  * 

Mar.  Get  him  to  say  his  prayers :  good  Sir  Toby 
get  him  to  pray. 

Mai.  My  prayers,  minx  ! 

Mar.  No,  I  warrant  you ;  he  will  not  hear  of 
godliness. 

Mai  Go,  hang  yourselves  all !  you  are  idle  shal- 
low things  :  I  am  not  of  your  element :  You  shall 
know  more  hereafter.  [Exit. 

Sir  To.  Is't  possible  1 

Fab.  If  this  were  play'd  upon  a  stage  now,  ,1 
could  condemn  it  as  an  improbable  fiction. 

Sir  To.  His  very  genius  hath  taken  the  infection 
of  the  device,  man. 

Mar.  Nay,  pursue  him  now,  lest  the  device  take 
air,  and  taint. 

Fab.  Why,  we  shall  make  him  mad,  indeed. 

Mar.  The  house  will  be  the  quieter. 

Sir  To.  Come,  we'll  have  him  in  a  dark  room, 
and  bound.  My  niece  is  already  in  the  belief  that 
he  is  mad :  we  may  carry  it  thus,  for  our  pleasure, 
and  lu's  penance,  till  our  very  pastime,  tired  out  of 
breath,  prompt  us  to  have  mercy  on  him ;  at  which 

*  A  game  played  by  pitching  cherry-stones  into  a  hole.      H. 

6  Collier  was  in  Shakespeare's  time  a  term  of  the  highest  re- 
proach. The  coal  venders  were  in  bad  repute,  not  only  from  the 
blackness  of  their  appearance,  but  that  many  of  them  were  also 
great  cheats.  The  devil  is  called  collier  for  his  blackness.  Hence 
the  proverb,  "  Like  will  to  like,  as  the  devil  with  the  collier  " 


416  TWELFTH    NIGHT,  ACT  III. 

time  we  wiM  bring  the  device  to  the  bar,  and  cro  MTII 
»hee  for  a  finder  of  madmen.     But  see,  but  see. 

Enter  Sir  ANDREW  AGUE-CHEEK. 

Fab.  More  matter  for  a  May  morning.8 

Sir  And.  Here's  ihe  challenge ;  read  it :  I  wiu- 
rant  there's  vinegar  and  pepper  in't. 

Fab.  Is't  so  saucy  ? 

Sir  And.  Ay,  is't,  I  warrant  liim :  do  but  read. 

Sir  To.  Give  me.  [Reads.]  "Youth;  whatso' 
ever  thou  art,  thou  art  but  a  scurvy  fellow." 

Fab.  Good,  and  valiant. 

Sir  To.  "  Wonder  not,  nor  admire  not  in  thy 
mind,  why  I  do  call  thee  so,  for  I  will  show  thee  no 
reason  for't." 

Fab.  A  good  note  ;  that  keeps  you  from  the  blow 
of  the  law. 

Sir  To.  "  Thou  comest  to  the  lady  Olivia,  and  in 
my  sight  she  uses  thee  kindly :  but  thou  liest  in  thy 
throat ;  that  is  not  the  matter  I  challenge  thee  for." 

Fab.  Very  brief,  and  exceeding  good  sense  —  less. 

Sir  To.  «'  I  will  waylay  thee  going  home  ;  where, 
if  it  be  thy  chance  to  kill  me," — 

Fab.  Good. 

Sir  To.  —  "  thou  killest  me  like  a  rogue  and  a 
villain." 

Fab.  Still  you  keep  o'the  windy  side  of  the  law 
Good. 

Sir  To.  "  Fare  ihee  well ;  and  God  have  mercy 
upon  one  of  our  souls  !  He  may  have  mercy  upon 
mine ;  but  my  hope  is  better,  and  so  look  to  thyself. 


•  It  was  usual  on  the  First  of  May  to  exhibit  metrical  inter- 
ludes of  the  comic  kind,  as  well  as  other  sports,  such  as  the  Morris 
Dance. 


6C,  IV.  OR   WHAT    YOU   WILL.  4P 

Thy  friend,  as  thou  usest  him,  and  thy  sworn  en- 
AJTOREW  AGUE-CHEEK." 

If  this  letter  move  him  not,  his  legs  cannot :  I'll 
give't  him. 

Mar.  You  may  have  very  ht  occasion  for't :  he 
is  now  in  some  commerce  with  my  lady,  and  will 
by  and  by  depart. 

Sir  To.  Go,  Sir  Andrew ;  scout  me  for  him  at 
the  corner  of  the  orchard,  like  a  bum-bailie : 7  so 
soon  as  ever  thou  seest  him,  draw ;  and,  as  thou 
drawest,  swear  horrible ; 8  for  it  comes  to  pass  oft, 
that  a  terrible  oath,  with  a  swaggering  accent  sharply 
twang'd  oft',  gives  manhood  more  approbation  than 
ever  proof  itself  would  have  earn'd  him.  Away. 

Sir  And.  Nay,  let  me  alone  for  swearing.    [Exit. 

Sir  To.  Now  will  riot  I  deliver  his  letter ;  for  the 
behaviour  of  the  young  gentleman  gives  him  out  to 
be  of  good  capacity  and  breeding  :  his  employment 
between  his  lord  and  my  niece  confirms  no  less ; 
therefore  this  letter,  being  so  excellently  ignorant, 
will  breed  no  terror  in  the  youth  :  he  will  find  it 
comes  from  a  clodpole.  But,  sir,  I  will  deliver  his 
challenge  by  word  of  mouth;  set  upon  Ague-cheek 
a  notable  report  of  valour ;  and  drive  the  gentleman 
(as  I  know  Ms  youth  will  aptly  receive  it)  into  a 
most  hideous  opinion  of  his  rage,  skill,  fury,  and  im- 
petuosity. This  will  so  fright  them  both,  that  they 
will  kill  one  another  by  the  look,  like  cockatrices. 

Enter  OLIVIA  and  VIOLA. 

Fab.  Here  he  comes  with  your  niece  :  give  them 
way,  till  he  take  leave,  and  presently  after  liim. 

7  A  waggish  foim  of  bum-bailiff'.  H. 

8  Adjectives  are  often  used  by  Shakespeare  aiid  his  contempo . 
raries  adverbially. 


4 IS  TWELFTH    NIGHT,  ACT  III 

Sir  To.  I   will    meditate   the  while    upon    some 
horrid  message  for  a  challenge. 

[Exeunt  Sir  To.,  FAB.,  and  MARIA. 

OK.  I  have  said  too  much  unto  a  heart  of  stone, 
And  laid  mine  honour  too  unchary  out: 
There's  something  in  me  that  reproves  my  fault ; 
But  such  a  headstrong  potent  fault  it  is, 
That  it  but  mocks  reproof. 

Vio.  With  the  same  'haviour  that  your  passion 

bears, 
Go  on  my  master's  griefs. 

OK.  Here ;  wear  this  jewel 10  for  me ;  'tis  my 

picture : 

Refuse  it  not ;  it  hath  no  tongue  to  vex  you ; 
And,  I  beseech  you,  come  again  to-morrow : 
What  shall  you  ask  of  me  that  I'll  deny, 
That  honour,  sav'd,  may  upon  asking  give  ? 

Vio.  Nothing  but  this ;   your  true  love  for  my 
master. 

OK.  How  with  mine  honour  may  I  give  him  that 
Which  I  have  given  to  you  ? 

Vio.  I  will  acquit  you. 

OK.  Well,  come  again  to-morrow:  Fare  thee  well ; 
A  fiend,  like  thee,  might  bear  my  soul  to  hell.  [Exit 

Re-enter  Sir  TOBY  BELCH  and  FABIAN. 

Sir  To.  Gentleman,  God  save  thee. 

Vio.  And  you,  sir. 

Sir  To.  That  defence  thuu  hast,  betake  thee  to  t 
of  what  nature  the  wrongs  are  thou  hast  done  him 
1  know  not ;  but  thy  intercepter,  full  of  despight 
bloody  as  the  hunter,  attends  thee  at  the  orchard 

'  That  is,  bestowed  my  honour  too  freely  upon  a  heart  of  stone 

H. 

10  Jewel  auciently  signified  any  precious  ornament  of  superfluity- 


SC.  IV.  OR    WHAT    YOU    WILL.  411) 

end  :  dismount  thy  tuck ;  "  be  yare  IS  in  thy  prepara- 
tion, for  thy  assailant  is  quick,  skilful,  and  deadly. 

Vio.  You  mistake,  sir ;  I  am  sure  no  man  hath 
any  quarrel  to  me  :  my  remembrance  is  very  free 
and  clear  from  any  image  of  offence  done  to  any 
man. 

Sir  To.  You'll  find  it  otherwise,  I  assure  vou, 
therefore,  if  you  hold  your  life  at  any  price,  betake 
you  to  your  guard ;  for  your  opposite  hath  in  him 
what  youth,  strength,  skill,  and  wrath,  can  furnish 
man  withal. 

Vio.  I  pray  you,  sir,  what  is  he  7 

Sir  To.  He  is  a  knight,  dubb'd  with  unhack'd  IS 
rapier,  and  on  carpet  consideration ; 14  but  he  is  a 
devil  in  private  brawl :  souls  and  bodies  hath  he  di- 
vorc'd  three  ;  and  his  incensement  at  this  moment 
is  so  implacable,  that  satisfaction  can  be  none  but 


11  Rapier. 

11  Ready,  nimble. 

w  The  original  reads  unhatch'd  rapier ;  but  many  of  the  best 
commentators  are  of  the  opinion  that  it  should  be  unhack'd. 
"  Hatching,"  according  to  an  old  authority,  "  is  to  silver  or  gild 
the  hilt  and  pomell  of  a  sword  or  hanger."  Hence  used  generally 
for  to  adorn  or  beautify.  Thus  in  Shirley's  Love  in  a  Maze  ' 
"  Thy  hair  is  fine  as  gold,  thy  chin  is  hatch  d  with  silver ;"  that  is, 
says  Gilford,  "  ornamented  with  a  white  or  silvery  beard."  So, 
also,  in  Troilus  and  Cressida;  "As  venerable  Nestor  hatch' d  in 
silver."  So  that  unhatch'd  rapier  would  mean  the  same  as  un- 
ornamented  rapier,  which  would  hardly  agree  with  the  use  here 
made  of  it.  Hatched,  it  is  true,  is  sometimes  used  in  the  sense 
of  stained ;  but  in  such  cases  it  is  followed  by  a  noun  denoting 
the  material;  as  in  Beaumont  and  Fletcher's  Humorous  Lieuten- 
ant: "  His  weapon  hatch'd  in  blood."  H. 

14  The  meaning  of  this  may  be  gathered  from  Randle  Holme. 
Speaking  of  a  certain  class  of  knights,  he  says, —  "They  are 
termed  simply  knights  of  the  carpet,  or  knights  of  the  green  cloth, 
to  distinguish  them  from  knights  that  are  dubbed  as  soldiers  in  the 
field  5  though  in  these  days  they  are  created  or  dubbed  with  the 
like  ceremony  as  the  others  are,  by  the  stroke  of  a  naked  sword 
apon  the  shoulder,  with  the  words,  Rise  up,  Sir  T.  A.,  knigbt.'' 

a 


420  TWELFTH    NIGHT,  ACT   111 

by  pangs  of  death  and  sepulchre:  Hob,  nob,'s  is 
his  word  ;  give't,  or  take't. 

Via.  I  will   return  again  into  the  house,  and  de 
sire  some  conduct  of  the  lady.     I  am  no  fighter.     I 
have  heard  of  some  kind  of  men,  that  put  quarrels 
purposely  on  others,  to  taste  their  valour :   belike, 
this  is  a  man  of  that  quirk. 

Sir  To.  Sir,  no  ;  his  indignation  derives  itself  out 
of  a  very  competent  injury :  therefore  get  you  on, 
and  give  him  his  desire.  Back  you  shall  not  to  the 
house,  unless  you  undertake  that  with  me,  which 
with  as  much  safety  you  might  answer  him  :  there- 
fore on,  or  strip  your  sword  stark  naked  ;  for  med- 
dle you  must,  that's  certain,  or  forswear  to  wear 
iron  about  you. 

Vio.  This  is  as  uncivil  as  strange.  I  beseech 
you,  do  me  this  courteous  office,  as  to  know  of  the 
knight  what  my  offence  to  him  is :  it  is  something 
of  my  negligence,  nothing  of  my  purpose. 

Sir  To.  I  will  do  so.  Signior  Fabian,  stay  you 
by  this  gentleman  till  my  return.  [Exit  Sir  TOBY. 

Vio.  Pray  you,  sir,  do  you  know  of  this  matter  ? 

Fab.  I  know  the  knight  is  incens'd  against  you, 
even  to  a  mortal  arbitrement ;  but  nothing  of  the 
circumstance  more. 

Vio.  I  beseech  you,  what  manner  of  man  is  he  ? 

Fab.  Nothing  of  that  wonderful  promise,  to  read 
him  by  his  form,  as  you  are  like  to  find  him  in  the 
proof  of  his  valour.  He  is,  indeed,  sir,  the  most 
skilful,  bloody,  and  fatal  opposite  that  you  could 
possibly  have  found  in  any  part  of  Illyria :  Will 
you  walk  towards  him  1  I  will  make  your  peace 
with  him,  if  I  can. 

is  u  [Job,  nob,"  says  Mr  Collier,  "  is  a  corruption  of  hap  or  ne 
hap ;  that  is,  '  let  it  happen  or  not  happen  ;  and  is  equivalent  tc 
'  come  what  may.'  "  B 


tC.  IV.  OB    WHAT    YOU    WILL.  421 

Vio.  I  shall  be  much  bound  to  you  for*t :  I  am 
one  that  would  rather  go  with  sir  priest,  than  sil 
knight :  I  care  not  who  knows  so  much  of  my 
mettle.  '  [Exeunt. 

Re-enter  Sir  TOBY,  with  Sir  ANDREW. 

Sir  To.  Why,  man,  he's  a  very  devil ;  I  have 
not  seen-  such  a  firago.16  I  had  a  pass  with  him, 
rapier,  scabbard,  and  all,  and  he  gives  me  the  stuck- 
in  I7  with  such  a  mortal  motion,  that  it  is  inevitable; 
and  on  the  answer  he  pays  you  as  surely  as  your 
feet  hit  the  ground  they  step  on :  They  say  he  has 
been  fencer  to  the  Sophy. 

Sir  And.  Pox  on't !  I'll  not  meddle  with  him. 

Sir  To.  Ay,  but  he  will  not  now  be  pacified. 
Fabian  can  scarce  hold  him  yonder. 

Sir  And.  Plague  on't !  an  I  thought  he  had  been 
valiant  and  so  cunning  in  fence,  I'd  have  seen  him 
damn'd  ere  I'd  have  challeng'd  him.  Let  him  let 
the  matter  slip,  and  I'll  give  him  my  horse,  gray 
Capilet. 

Sir  To.  I'll  make  the  motion :  stand  here  ;  make 
a  good  show  on't :  this  shall  end  without  the  perdi- 
tion of  souls.  [Aside.]  Marry,  I'll  ride  your  horse  as 
well  as  I  ride  you. 

Re-enter  FABIAN  and  VIOLA. 

[  To  FAB.]  I  have  his  horse  to  take  up  the  quarrel : 
I  have  persuaded  him  the  youth's  a  devil. 

Fab.  [  To  Sir  To.]  He  is  as  horribly  conceited  " 

16  Firago,  for  virago.     The  meaning  appears  to  be,  I  hava 
never  seen  the  most  luring  woman  so  obstreperous  and  v/'olen' 
as  he  is. 

17  A  corruption  of  stoccata,  an  Italian  term  in  fencing. 

18  lie  has  a  horrid  conception  of  him 


122  TWELFTH    NIGHT.  ACT  III 

of  him  ;  and  pants,  and  looks  pale,  as  if  a  bear  were 
at  his  heels. 

Sir  To.  [To  Vio.]  There's  no  remedy,  sir'  he 
will  fight  with  you  for  his  oath  sake :  Marry,  he 
hath  better  bethought  him  of  his  quarrel,  and  he 
find.s  that  now  scarce  to  be  worth  talking  of:  there- 
fore draw,  for  the  supportance  of  his  vow :  he  pro- 
tests he  will  not  hurt  you. 

Vio.  [Aside.]  Pray  God  defend  me !  A  little 
thing  would  make  me  tell  them  how  much  I  lack 
of  a  man. 

Fab.  Give  ground,  if  you  see  him  furious. 

Sir  To.  Come,  Sir  Andrew,  there's  no  remedy : 
the  gentleman  will,  for  his  honour's  sake,  have  one 
bout  with  you :  he  cannot  by  the  duello  avoid  it ; 
but  he  has  promised  me,  as  he  is  a  gentleman  and 
H  soldier,  he  will  not  hurt  you.  Come  on ;  to't. 

Sir  And.  Pray  God,  he  keep  his  oath !     [Draws. 

Enter  ANTONIO. 
Vio.  I  do  assure  you  'tis  against  my  will. 

[Draws, 
Ant.  Put  up  your  sword :  —  If  this  young  gentle 

man 

Have  done  offence,  I  take  the  fault  on  me : 
If  you  offend  him,  I  for  him  defy  you.       [Drawing. 
Sir  To.  Y;/u,  sir  ?  why,  what  are  you  ? 
Ant.  One,  sir,  that  for  Ins  love  dares  yet  do  more 
Than  you  have  heard  him  brag  to  you  he  will. 

Sir  To.  Nay,  if  you  be  an  undertaker,19  I  am 
for  you.  [Draws 

Enter  Officers. 

Fab.  O,  good  Sir  Toby,  hold !  here  come  th« 
officers. 

19  That  is,  one  who  takes  up  or  undertakes  the  quarrel  of  a*. 
other. 


6C.  IV.  OR   WHAT    TOU  WILL.  4£l 

Sir  To.   [To  ANT.]   I'll  be  with  you  anon. 

Vio.  [To  Sir  AND.]  Pray,  sir,  put  your  sword 
up,  if  you  please. 

Sir  And.  Marry,  will  I,  sir ;  —  and,  for  that  I 
promis'd  you,  I'll  be  as  good  as  my  word :  He  will 
bear  you  easily  ;  and  reins  well. 

1  Off"  This  is  the  man  :  do  thy  office. 

2  Of.  Antonio,  I  arrest  thee  at  the  suit 
Of  count  Orsino. 

Ant.  You  do  mistake  me,  sir. 

1  Off.  No,  sir,  no  jot ;  I  know  your  favour  well, 
Though  now  you  have  no  sea-cap  on  your  head.  — • 
Take  him  away:  he  knows  I  know  him  well. 

Ant.  I  must  obey.  —  [To  Vio.]  This  comes  with 

seeking  you ; 

But  there's  no  remedy :  I  shall  answer  it. 
What  will  you  do  1    Now  my  necessity 
Makes  me  to  ask  you  for  my  purse :  It  grieves  me 
Much  more  for  what  I  cannot  do  for  you, 
Than  what  befalls  myself.     You  stand  umaz'd : 
But  be  of  comfort. 

2  Of.  Come,  sir,  away. 

Ant.  I  must  entreat  of  you  some  of  that  money 

Vio.  What  money,  sir  ? 

For  the  fair  kindness  you  have  show'd  me  here, 
And  part,  being  prompted  by  your  present  troublet 
Out  of  my  lean  and  low  ability 
I'll  lend  you  sometliing :  My  having  is  not  much ; 
I'll  make  division  of  my  present  with  you : 
Hold,  there  is  half  my  coffer. 

Ant.  Will  you  deny  me  now  1 

Is't  possible  that  my  deserts  to  you 
Can  lack  persuasion  ?     Do  not  tempt  my  misery, 
Lest  that  it  make  me  so  unsound  a  man, 
As  to  upbraid  you  with  those  kindnesses 
That  I  have  done  for  vou 


424  TWELFTH    NIGHT.  ACT   IIL 

Vio-  I  know  of  none ; 

Nor  know  1  you  by  voice,  or  any  feature : 
f  hate  ingratitude  more  in  a  man, 
Than  lying,  vainness,  babbling  drunkennes?, 
Or  any  taint  of  vice,  whose  strong  corruption 
Inhabits  our  frail  blood. 

Ant.  O,  heavens  themselves ! 

2  Of.  Come,  sir ;  I  pray  you  go. 

Ant.  Let  me  speak  a  little.     This  youth  that  you 

see  here 

I  snalch'd  one  half  out  of  the  jaws  of  death ; 
Reliev'd  him  with  such  sanctity  of  love, 
And  to  his  image,  which,  methought,  did  promise 
Most  venerable  worth,  did  I  devotion. 

1  Off.  What's  that  to  us  1    The  time  goes  by ; 
away. 

Ant.  But,  O  !  how  vile  an  idol  proves  this  god !  — 
Thou  hast,  Sebastian,  done  good  feature  shame. — 
In  nature  there's  no  blemish,  but  the  mind ; 
None  can  be  call'd  deform'd,  but  the  unkind : 
Virtue  is  beauty ;  but  the  beauteous-evil 
Are  empty  trunks,  o'erflourish'd 20  by  the  devil. 

1  Off.  The  man  grows  mad :  away  with  him. 
Come,  come,  sir. 

Ant.  Lead  me  on.         [Exeunt  Officers  with  ANT. 

Vio.  Methinks,  his  words  do  from  such  passion  fly 
That  he  believes  himself;  so  do  not  I." 
Prove  true,  imagination,  O  !  prove  true, 
That  I,  dear  brother,  be  now  ta'en  for  you  ! 

Sir  To.  Come  hither,  knight ;  come  hither,  Fa- 
bian :  we'll  whisper  o'er  a  couplet  or  two  of  most 
sage  saws. 

80  Trunks,  being  then  part  of  the  furniture  of  apartments,  were 
ornamented  with  scroll  work  or  Jlourished  devices. 

fl  That  is,  I  do  not  yet  believe  myself,  when  from  this  accident 
I  gather  hope  of  my  brother's  life. 


SC.  IV.  OH    WHAT    YOU   WILL.  425 

Via.  He  nam'd  Sebastian :  I  my  brother  know 
Yet  living  in  my  glass ; 22  e\  en  such,  and  so, 
In  favour  was  my  brother  ;  and  he  went 
Still  in  this  fashion,  colour,  ornament, 
For  him  I  imitate  :    O  !  if  it  prove, 
Tempests  are  kind,  and  salt  waves  fresh  in  love ! 

[Exit 

Sir  To.  A  very  dishonest  paltry  boy,  and  more 
a  coward  than  a  hare :  his  dishonesty  appears,  in 
leaving  his  friend  here  in  necessity,  and  denying 
him ;  and  for  his  cowardship,  ask  Fabian. 

Fab.  A  coward,  a  most  devout  coward,  religious 
in  it. 

Sir.  And.  'Slid !  I'll  after  him  again,  and  beat  him. 

Sir  To.  Do ;  cuff  him  soundly,  but  never  draw 
thy  sword. 

Sir  And.  An  I  do  not,  —  [Exit. 

Fab.  Come,  let's  see  the  event. 

Sir  To.  I  dare  lay  any  money,  'twill  be  nothing 
yet.  [Exeunt. 


ACT   IV. 

SCENE  I.     The  Street  before  OLIVIA'S  House. 

Enter  SEBASTIAN  and  CLOWN. 

Clo.  Will  you  make  me  believe  that  I  am  not 
sent  for  you  1 

Seb.  Go  to,  go  to ;  thou  art  a  foolish  fellow : 
Let  me  be  clear  of  thee. 

Clo.  Well  held  out,  i'faith  !     No,  I  do  not  know 

w  His  resemblance  survives  in  the  reflection  of  mv  own  figure 


426  TWELFTH    NIGHT,  ACT    IT. 

you  ;  nor  1  am  not  sent  to  you  by  my  lady,  to  bid  you 
come  speak  with  her ;  nor  your  name  is  not  master 
Cesario ;  nor  this  is  not  my  nose  neither.  —  Noth- 
ing, that  is  so,  is  so. 

Seb.  I  pr'ythee,  vent  thy  folly  somewhere  else  : 
Thou  know'st  not  me. 

Clo.  Vent  my  folly  !  He  has  heard  that  word  ol 
some  great  man,  and  now  applies  it  to  a  fool.  Vent 
my  folly  !  I  am  afraid  this  great  lubber,  the  world, 
will  prove  a  cockney.  —  I  pr'ythee  now,  ungird  thy 
strangeness,  and  tell  me  what  I  shall  vent  to  my 
lady :  Shall  I  vent  to  her  that  thou  art  coming  1 

Seb.  I  pr'ythee,  foolish  Greek,1  depart  from  me ' 
There's  money  for  thee  :  if  you  tarry  longer, 
I  shall  give  worse  payment. 

Clo.  By  my  troth,  thou  hast  an  open  hand:- 
These  wise  men  that  give  fools  money  get  themselves 
a  good  report  after  fourteen  years'  purchase.2 

Enter  Sir  ANDREW,  Sir  TOBY,  and  FABIAN. 

Sir  And.  Now,  sir,  have  I  met  you  again  ?  there's 
for  you.  [Striking  SEB. 

Seb.  Why,  there's  for  thee,  and  there,  and  there : 
Are  all  the  people  mad  1  [Beating  Sir  AND, 

Sir  To.  Hold,  sir,  or  I'll  throw  your  dagger  o'er 
the  house. 

Clo.  This  will  I  tell  my  lady  straight :  I  would 
not  be  in  some  of  your  coats  for  two-pence. 

[Exit  CLOWN. 

Sir  To.  Come  on,  sir  ;  hold  !          [Holding  SEB. 

1  A  merry  Greek,  or  a  foolish  Greek,  were  ancient  proverbial 
expressions  applied  to  boon  companions,  good  fellows,  as  they 
were  called,  who  spent  their  time  in  riotous  mirth.  Matthew 
Merry-creek  is  a  character  in  Ralph  Roister  Doister,  a  plaj 
written  as  early  as  the  reign  of  Edward  VI.  H. 

*  That  is,  at  a  very  extravagant  price,  twelve  years'  purrlias 
being  then  the  current  price  of  estates. 


SC.  I.  OR    WHAT    YOU    WILL.  421 

Sir  And.  Nay,  let  him  alone  ;  I'll  go  another  way 
to  work  with  him :  I'll  have  an  action  of  battery 
against  him,  if  there  be  any  law  in  Illyria :  Though 
I  struck  him  first,  yet  it's  no  matter  for  that. 

Seb.  Let  go  thy  hand. 

Sir  To.  Come,  sir,  I  will  not  let  you  go.  Come, 
my  young  soldier,  put  up  your  iron :  you  are  well 
flesh'd :  Come  on. 

Seb.  I  will  be   free  from  thee.     What  wouldst 

thou  now  1 
If  thou  dar'st  tempt  me  further,  draw  thy  sword. 

Sir  To.  What,  what !  Nay,  then  I  must  have  an 
ounce  or  two  of  this  malapert  blood  from  you. 

[Draws 

Enter  OLIVIA. 

OIL  Hold,  Toby!  on  thy  life  I  charge  thee,  hold ! 

Sir  To.  Madam, — 

OK.  Will  it  be  ever  thus  ?    Ungracious  wretch ! 
Fit  for  the  mountains  and  the  barbarous  caves, 
Where  manners  ne'er  were  preach'd :    Out  of  my 

sight !  — 

Be  not  offended,  dear  Cesario. — 
Rudesby,3  be  gone  !  —  I  pr'ythee,  gentle  friend, 

[Exeunt  Sir  To.,  Sir  AND.,  and  FAB. 
Let  thy  fair  wisdom,  not  thy  passion,  sway 
In  this  uncivil  and  unjust  extent 
Against  thy  peace.     Go  with  me  to  my  house ; 
And  hear  thou  there  how  many  fruitless  pranks 
This  ruffian  hath  botch'd  up,  that  thou  thereby 
Mayst  smile  at  this :  thou  shalt  not  choose  but  go ; 
Do  not  deny :    Beshrew  his  soul  for  me, 
He  started  one  poor  heart4  of  mine  in  thee. 

1  Rude  fellow. 

4  An  equivoque  is  here  intended  between  hart  and  heart,  whicfr 
were  former'y  written  alike 


428  TWELFTH    NIGHT,  ACT    IV 

Seb.  What  relish  is  in  this  1   how  runs  the  stream  1 
Or  I  am  mad,  or  else  this  is  a  dream :  — 
Let  fancy  still  my  sense  in  Lethe  steep ; 
If  it  be  thus  to  dream,  still  let  me  sleep ! 

OK.   Nay,  come,  I  pr'ythee  :  'Would  thou'dst  be 

rul'd  by  me ! 
tieb.  Madam,  I  will. 
OIL  O  !  say  so,  and  so  be. 

[Exeunt. 

SCENE   n.     A  Room  in  OLIVIA'S  House. 
Enter  PI!ARIA  and  Clown. 

Mar.  Nay,  I  pr'ythee,  put  on  this  gown  and  this 
beard :  make  him  believe  thou  art  Sir  Topas  the 
curate  ;  do  it  quickly  :  I'll  call  Sir  Toby  the  whilst. 

[Exit  MARIA. 

Clo.  Well,  I'll  put  it  on,  and  I  will  dissemble  ' 
myself  in't ;  and  I  would  I  were  the  first  that  ever 
dissembled  in  such  a  gown.  I  am  not  tall 2  enough 
to  become  the  function  well ;  nor  lean  enough  to  be 
thought  a  good  student :  but  to  be  said,  an  honest 
man  and  a  good  housekeeper,  goes  as  fairly  as  to 
say,  a  careful  man  and  a  great  scholar.  The  com 
petitors  3  enter. 

Enter  Sir  TOBY  BELCH  and  MARIA. 

Sir  To.  Jove  bless  thee,  master  parson ! 

Clo.  Bonos  dies,  Sir  Toby !  for  as  the  old  hermit 

*  That  is,  disguise.     Shakespeare  has  here  used  a  Latinisni. 
"  Ditsimulo,  to  dissemble,  to  cloak,  to  hide,"  says  Hutton's  Die 
tionary,  1583.     And  Ovid,  speaking  of  Achilles  : 

«  Veste  virum  longa  dissimulatus  erat." 

*  The  modern  editors  have  changed  this  to  fat  without  any  ap- 
parent reason  ;  ta.II.  being  sometimes  used  in  the  sense  of  lusty 
and  thus  making  9  good  antithesis  to  lean.  H. 

*  Confederates      See  The  Two  Gentlemen  of  Veran  i,  Actii 
«C.  6,  ani!  note. 


SC.  II.  OR    WHAT    YOU    WILL..  4'x 

of  Prague,  that  never  saw  pen  and  ink,  very  wittily 
said  to  a  niece  of  king  Gorboduc,  "  That,  that  is, 
is ;  "  so  I,  being  master  parson,  am  master  parson  : 
For  what  is  that,  but  that  ?  and  is,  but  is  1  * 

Sir  To.  To  him,  Sir  Topas. 

Clo.  What,  ho  !  I  say  :  —  Peace  in  this  prison ! 

Sir  To.  The  knave  counterfeits  well :  a  good 
knave. 

Mai.  [\Vithin.]  Who  calls  there  ? 

Clo.  Sir  Topas  the  curate,  who  comes  to  visit 
Malvolio  the  lunatic. 

Mai.  Sir  Topas,  Sir  Topas,  good  Sir  Topas,  go 
to  my  lady. 

CJa.  Out,  hyperbolical  fiend !  how  vexest  thou 
this  man  !  talkest  thou  nothing  but  of  ladies  1 

Sir  To.  Well  said,  master  parson. 

Mai.  Sir  Topas,  never  was  man  thus  wronged 
good  Sir  Topas,  do  not  think  I  am  mad :  they  have 
laid  me  here  in  hideous  darkness. 

Clo.  Fie,  thou  dishonest  Sathan !  I  call  thee  by 
the  most  modest  terms  ;  for  I  am  one  of  those  gentle 
ones,  that  will  use  the  devil  liimself  with  courtesy  : 
Say'st  thou  that  house  is  dark  ? 

Mai  As  hell,  Sir  Topas. 

Clo.  Why,  it  hath  bay-windows*  transparent  as 
barricadoes,  and  the  clear  stories 6  towards  the 

4  A  humorous  banter  upon  the  language  of  the  schools. 

1  Bay  windows  were  large  projecting  windows,  probably  so 
called  because  they  occupied  a  whole  bay  or  space  between  two 
cross  beams  in  a  building.  Miushew  says  a  bay-window  is  so 
called  "  because  it  is  builded  in  manner  of  a  bay  or  road  for  ships, 
that  is,  round." 

•  Clear  stories,  in  Gothic  architecture,  denote  the  row  of  win- 
dows running  along  the  upper  part  of  a  lofty  hall  or  of  a  churcn, 
over  the  arches  of  the  nave :  "  Over  each  side  of  the  nave  is  a 
row  of  clere  story  windows." —  Ormerod's  Hist,  of  Cheshire^ 
i.  460.  The  first  folio  reads  clear  stares,  the  second  folio  clew 
etonts,  which  was  followed  by  all  subsequen  editors.  The  emet 
Hation  and  explacation  are  Mr.  Blnkewav's 


4#0  TWELFTH    NIGHT,  ACT  TV. 

south-north  are  as  lustrous  as  ebony  ;  and  yet  com 
plainest  thou  of  obstruction  1 

Mai.  I  am  not  mad,  Sir  Topas :  I  say  to  you, 
this  house  is  dark. 

Clo.  Madman,  thou  errest :  I  say,  there  is  no 
darkness,  but  ignorance ;  in  which  thou  art  more 
puzzled  than  the  Egyptians  in  their  fog. 

Mai.  I  say,  this  house  is  as  dark  as  ignorance, 
though  ignorance  were  as  dark  as  hell ;  and  I  say, 
there  was  never  man  thus  abus'd :  I  am  no  more 
mad  than  you  are  ;  make  the  trial  of  it  in  any  con- 
stant question. 

Clo.  What  is  the  opinion  of  Pythagoras  concern 
ing  wild-fowl  1 

Mai.  That  the  soul  of  our  grandam  might  haply 
inhabit  a  bird.  . 

Clo.  What  thinkest  thou  of  his  opinion  ? 

Mai.  I  think  nobly  of  the  soul,  and  no  way  ap- 
prove his  opinion. 

Clo.  Fare  thee  well :  remain  thou  still  in  dark- 
ness. Thou  shall  hold  the  opinion  of  Pythagoras, 
ere  I  will  allow  of  thy  wits  ;  and  fear  to  kill  a 
woodcock,7  lest  thou  dispossess  the  soul  of  thy 
grandam.  Fare  thee  well. 

Mai.  Sir  Topas  !    Sir  Topas  !  — 

Sir  To.  My  most  exquisite  Sir  Topas  ! 

Clo.  Nay,  I  am  for  all  waters.8 

7  The  clown  mentions  a  woodcock,  because  it  was  proverbial 
as  a  foolish  bird,  and  therefore   a  proper  ancestor  for  a  man  out 
of  his  wits. 

8  "  A  proverbial  phrase  not  yet  satisfactorily  explained.     The 
meaning,  however,  appears  to  be,  — 'I  can  turn  my  hand  to  any 
thing,  or  assume  any  character.'     Florio  in  his  translation  of  Mon- 
taigne, speaking  of  Aristotle,  says,  — '  He  hath  an  oar  in  even, 
water,  and  meddleth  with  all  things.'     And  in  his  '  Second  Frutes  ' 
there  is  an  expression  more  resembling  the  import  of  that  in  the 
text :  '  I  am  a  knight  for  all  saddles  '     Nash  in  his  •  Lenten  Stutl'c  ' 


SC.  H  OR    WHAT    1OU    WILL.  431 

Mca .  Thou  mightst  have  done  this  without  thy 
beard  uid  gown :  he  sees  thee  not. 

Sir  To.  To  him  in  thine  own  voice,  and  bring  me 
word  how  thou  findest  liim  :  I  would  we  were  well 
rid  of  this  knavery.  If  he  may  be  conveniently  do* 
liver'd,  I  would  he  were ;  for  I  am  now  so  far  in 
offence  with  my  niece,  that  I  cannot  pursue  with 
any  satety  this  sport  to  the  upshot.  Come  by  and 
by  to  my  chamber.  [Exeunt  Sir  To.  and  MARIA 

Clo.  "  Hey  Robin,  jolly  Robin,9 

Tell  me  how  thy  lady  does."    [Singing 

Mai  Fool,— 

Clo.  "  My  lady  is  unkind,  perdy." 

Mai.  Fool,— 

Clo.  "  Alas,  why  is  she  so  1  " 

Mai.  Fool,  I  say  ;  — 

Clo.  "  She  loves  another  —  "     Who  calls,  ha  ? 

Mai.  Good  fool,  as  ever  thou  wilt  deserve  well 
at  my  hand,  help  me  to  a  candle,  and  pen,  ink,  and 
paper :  as  I  am  a  gentleman,  I  will  live  to  be  thank 
ful  to  thee  for't. 

Clo.  Master  Malvolio  1 

MaL  Ay,  good  fool. 

Clo.  Alas  !  sir,  how  fell  you  beside  your  five 
mis  1 

MaL  Fool,  there  was  never  man  so  notoriously 
abus'd :  I  am  as  well  in  my  wits,  fool,  as  thou  art 

1599,  has  a.uiost  the  language  of  the  Clown:  '  He  is  first  broken 
to  the  sea  in  the  Herring-man's  skiffe  or  cock-boate,  where  having 
learned  to  brooks  all  waters,  and  drink  as  he  can  out  of  a  tarrie 
can.' " 

Such  is  the  Chiswick  commentary  on  the  text.  To  which  we 
can  add  nothing  more  than  to  suggest  whether  the  words  of  the 
Clown  were  not  meant  as  a  humorous  application  of  the  pas- 
sage in  Isaiah  zxxiii.  20 :  «  Blessed  are  ye  that  sow  beside  al 
waters."  H. 

•  This  ballad  may  be  found  in  Percy's  Reliques.  Dr.  Nott  baa 
also  printed  it  among  the  poems  of  Sir  Thomas  Wiatt  the  elder 


432  TWELFTH    NIGHT,  ACT  IV 

Clo.  But  as  well  ?  then  you  are  mad,  indeed,  if 
you  be  no  better  in  your  wits  than  a  fool. 

Mai.  They  have  here  propertied  me  ; l0  keep  me 
in  darkness,  send  ministers  to  me,  asses,  and  do  all 
they  can  to  face  me  out  of  my  wits. 

Clo.  Advise  you  what  you  say  ;  the  minister  is 
here.11  —  Malvolio,  Malvolio,  thy  wits  the  heavens 
restore  !  endeavour  thyself  to  sleep,  and  leave  thy 
vain  bibble  babble. 

Mai  Sir  Topas,  — 

Clo.  Maintain  no  words  with  him,  good  fellow. 
—  Who,  I,  sir  ?  not  I,  sir.     God  b'wi'you,   good 
Sir  Topas.  —  Marry,  amen.  —  I  will,  sir,  I  will. 

Mai.  Fool,  fool,  fool,  I  say.  — 

Clo.  Alas  !  sir,  be  patient.  What  say  you,  sir  ? 
I  am  shent 12  for  speaking  to  you. 

Mai.  Good  fool,  help  me  to  some  light,  and  some 
paper  :  I  tell  thee  I  am  as  well  in  my  wits  as  ay  y 
man  in  Illyria. 

Clo.  Well-a-day,  —  that  you  were,  sir  ! 

Mai.  By  this  hand,  I  am  :  Good  fool,  some  ink, 
paper,  and  light,  and  convey  what  I  will  set  down 
to  my  lady  :  it  shall  advantage  thee  more  than  ever 
the  bearing  of  letter  did. 

Clo.  1  will  help  you  to't.  But  tell  me  true,  are 
you  not  mad,  indeed  1  or  do  you  but  counterfeit  ] 

Mai.  Believe  me,  I  am  not :  I  tell  thee  true. 

10  That  is,  "  taken  possession   of  me  as  of  a  man  unable  to 
look  to  himself."     So  says  Dr.  Johnson  ;  but  Mr.  Collier  suggests 
that  there  may  be  some  allusion  to  the  "  properties  "  of  a  theatre, 
which  when  out  of  use  were  thrust   nto  some  dark  loft  or  lumber- 
room.  H. 

11  The  Clown,  in  the  dark,  acts  two  persons,  and  counterfeits, 
by  variation  of  voice,  a  dialogue  between  himself  and  Sir  Topas  j 
the  preceding  part  of  this  speech  being1  spoken  as  Clown,  the  fol 
lowing  as  Priest.  H 

ls  Scolded,  reprimanded 


*C.  III.  OR    WHAT    YOU    WIL.L.  433 

Clo.  Nay,  I'll  ne'er  believe  a  madman  till  I  see 
his  brains.  I  will  fetch  you  light,  and  paper,  arid 
ink. 

MaL  Fool,  I'll  requite  it  in  the  highest  degree : 
pr'ythee,  begone. 

Clo.  —     "  I  am  gone,  sir, 

And  anon,  sir, 
Fll  be  with  you  again, 

In  a  trice, 

Like  to  the  old  vice," 
Your  need  to  sustain ; 

Who  with  dagger  of  lath, 
In  his  rage  and  his  wrath, 

Cries  ah,  ha !  to  the  devil : 
Like  a  mad  lad, 
Pare  thy  nails,  dad, 
Adieu,  goodman  devil."  [Exit. 

SCENE    in.     OLIVIA'S  Garden. 

Enter  SEBASTIAN. 

Seb.  This  is  the  air ;  that  is  the  glorious  sun , 
This  pearl  she  gave  me,  I  do  feel't  and  see't : 
And  though  'tis  wonder  that  enwraps  me  thus, 
Yet  'tis  not  madness.     Where's  Antonio  then  ? 
I  eould  not  find  him  at  the  Elephant : 

11  The  Vice  was  the  fool  of  the  old  moralities.  He  was  gio- 
tesquely  dressed  in  a  cap  with  ass's  ears,  a  long  coat,  and  a  dag- 
ger of  lath.  One  of  his  chief  employments  was  to  make  sport 
with  the  devil,  leaping  on  his  back  and  belabouring  him  with  hia 
dagger,  till  he  made  him  roar.  The  devil  however  always  carried 
him  off  in  the  end.  The  moral  was,  that  sin,  which  has  the  cour- 
age to  make  very  merry  with  the  devil,  and  is  allowed  by  him  to 
take  >  ery  great  liberties,  must  finally  become  his  prey.  The  lino 
are  probably  a  part  of  some  well-known  old  comic  song,  resound 
ing  the  exploits  of  this  ancient  theatrical  personage. 


434  TWELFTH    NIGHT,  ACT   IV 

Yet  there  he  was  ;  and  there  I  found  this  credit,1 
That  he  did  range  the  town  to  seek  me  out. 
His  counsel  now  might  do  me  golden  service : 
For  though  my  soul  disputes  well  with  my  sense, 
That  this  may  be  some  error,  but  no  madness, 
Yet  doth  this  accident  and  flood  of  fortune 
So  far  exceed  all  instance,  all  discourse, 
That  I  am  ready  to  distrust  mine  eyes, 
And  wrangle  with  my  reason,  that  persuades  me 
To  any  other  trust  but  that  I  am  mad, 
Or  else  the  lady's  mad  :  yet,  if  'twere  so, 
She  could  not  sway  her  house,  command  her  fol- 
lowers, 

Take  and  give  back  affairs,  and  their  despatch, 
With  such  a  smooth,  discreet,  and  stable  bearing, 
As,  I  perceive,  she  does :  There's  something  in't. 
That  is  deceivable.8     But  here  the  lady  comes. 

Enter  OLIVIA  and  a  Priest. 

OK-  Blame  not  this  haste  of  mine  :  If  you  mean 

well, 

Now  go  with  me,  and  with  this  holy  man, 
Into  the  chantry 3  by  :  there,  before  him, 
And  underneath  that  consecrated  roof, 
Plight  me  the  full  assurance  of  your  faith ; 
That  my  most  jealous  and  too  doubtful  soul 
May  live  at  peace  :    He  shall  conceal  it, 
Whiles  4  you  are  willing  it  shall  come  to  note ; 
What  time  we  will  our  celebration  keep 
According  to  my  birth.  —  What  do  you  say  ? 

1  That  is,  belief,  or  thing  believed.  H. 

*  That  is,  deceptive.     The  Poet  often  uses  the  passive  and  the 
active  adjectives  interchangeably.     See  Act  ii.  sc.  1,  note  4.    H. 

3  Chantry,  a  little  chapel,  nr  particular  altar  in  some  cathedra, 
or  parochial  church,  endowed  for  the  purpose  of  having  masses 
sung  therein  for  the  souls  of  the  founuers. 

*  Until. 


BO.  III.  OR   WHAT    YOU    WILL,.  4#* 

Scb.  I'll  follow  tliis  good  man,  and  go  with  you ; 
And,  having  sworn  truth,4  ever  will  be  true. 

OK.    Then  lead   the   way,  good  father  :  —  And 

heavens  so  shine, 
That  they  may  fairly  note  this  act  of  mine  !  [Exeunt. 


ACT  V. 

SCENE    I.     The  Street  before  OLIVIA'S  House. 

Enter  Clown  and  FABIAN. 

Fab.  Now,  as  thou  lovest  me,  let  me  see  his  letter. 

Clo.  Good  master  Fabian,  grant  me  another 
request. 

Fab.  Any  thing. 

Clo.  Do  not  desire  to  see  this  letter. 

Fab.  This  is,  to  give  a  dog,  and  in  recompense 
desire  my  dog  again. 

Enter  DUKE,  VIOLA,  and  Attendants. 

Duke.  Belong  you  to  the  lady  Olivia,  friends  ? 

Clo.  Ay,  sir ;  we  are  some  of  her  trappings. 

Duke.  I  know  thee  well :  how  dost  thou,  my 
good  fellow  1 

Clo.  Truly,  sir,  the  better  for  my  foes,  and  the 
worse  for  my  friends. 

Duke.  Just  the  contrary ;  the  better  for  thy  friends. 

Clo.  No,  sir,  the  worse. 

Duke.  How  can  that  be  ? 

•  Troth  or  fidelity.  It  should  be  remarked  that  this  was  not  an 
actual  marriage,  but  a  betrothing,  affiancing1,  or  solemn  promise  of 
future  marriage ;  anciently  distinguished  by  the  name  of  espousal* 
See  The  Two  Gentlemen  of  Verona,  Act  ii.  sc.  2,  note  1 


436  fWELFTH    NIGHT,  ACT  7 

Clo.  Marry,  sir,  they  praise  me,  and  make  an  ass 
of  me :  now  my  foes  tell  me  plainly  I  am  an  ass ; 
so  that  by  my  foes,  sir,  I  profit  ia  the  knowledge  oi 
myself ;  and  by  my  friends  I  am  abused  :  so  that 
conclusions  to  be  as  kisses,1  if  your  four  negatives 
make  your  two  affirmatives,  why,  then  the  worse 
for  my  friends,  and  the  better  for  my  foes. 

Duke.  Why,  this  is  excellent. 

Clo.  By  my  troth,  sir,  no  ;  though  it  please  you 
to  be  one  of  my  friends. 

Duke.  Thou  shalt  not  be  the  worse  for  me : 
there's  gold. 

Clo.  But  that  it  would  be  double-dealing,  sir,  I 
would  you  could  make  it  another. 

Duke.  O !  you  give  me  ill  counsel. 

Clo.  Put  your  grace  in  your  pocket,  sir,  for  this 
once,  and  let  your  flesh  and  blood  obey  it. 

Duke.  Well,  I  will  be  so  much  a  sinner  to  be  a 
double-dealer  :  there's  another. 

Cfa.  Primo,  secundo,  tertio,  is  a  good  play  ;  and 
the  old  saying  is,  the  third  pays  for  all :  the  triplex, 
sir,  is  a  good  tripping  measure  ;  or  the  bells  of  St. 
Bennet,  sir,  may  put  you  in  mind,  —  One,  two,  three. 

Duke.  You  can  fool  no  more  money  out  of  me  at 
this  throw :  if  you  will  let  your  lady  know  I  am 
here  to  speak  with  her,  and  bring  her  along  with 
you,  it  may  awake  my  bounty  further. 

Clo.  Marry,   sir,  lullaby  to  your  bounty,   till  I 

1  Warburton  thought  this  should  read,  —  "conclusion  to  be 
asked,  is ;  "  upon  which  Coleridge  remarks  :  "  Surely  Warburten 
could  never  have  wooed  by  kisses  and  won,  or  he  would  not  have 
flounder-flatted  so  just  and  humorous,  nor  less  pleasing  than  hu- 
morous, an  image  into  so  profound  a  nihility.  In  the  name  of 
love  and  wonder,  do  not  four  kisses  make  a  double  affirmative  1 
The  humour  lies  in  the  whispered  '  No  !  '  and  the  inviting  '  Don't ! ' 
with  which  the  maiden's  kisses  are  accompanied,  and  thence  com 
pared  to  negatives,  which  hy  repetition  constitute  an  affirmative.' 


SC.  I.  OR    WHAT    YOU    WILL.  437 

come  again.  I  go,  sir  ;  but  I  would  not  have  you 
to  think  that  my  desire  of  having  is  the  sin  of  cov- 
etousness  ;  but,  as  you  say,  sir,  let  your  bounty  take 
a  uap ;  I  will  awake  it  anon.  [Exit  Cloum. 

Enter  ANTONIO  and  Officers. 

Vto.  Here  comes  the  man,  sir,  that  did  rescue  me. 

Duke.  That  face  of  his  I  do  remember  well ; 
Yet,  when  I  saw  it  last,  it  was  besmear'd 
As  black  as  Vulcan,  in  the  smoke  of  war : 
A  bawbling  vessel  was  he  captain  of, 
For  shallow  draught  and  bulk  unprizable  ; 
With  which  such  scathfiil  grapple  did  he  make 
With  the  most  noble  bottom  of  our  fleet, 
That  very  envy,  and  the  tongue  of  loss, 
Cried  fame  and  honour  on  him. — What's  the  matter! 

1  Off.  Orsino,  this  is  that  Antonio 
That  took  the  Phoenix  and  her  fraught  from  Candy ; 
And  this  is  he  that  did  the  Tiger  board, 
When  your  young  nephew  Titus  lost  his  leg: 
Here  in  the  streets,  desperate  of  shame  and  state,* 
In  private  brabble  did  we  apprehend  him. 

Vio.  He  did  me  kindness,  sir  ;  drew  on  my  side ; 
But,  in  conclusion,  put  strange  speech  upon  me  : 
I  know  not  what  'twas,  but  distraction. 

Duke.  Notable  pirate  !  thou  salt-water  thief ! 
What  foolish  boldness  brought  thee  to  their  mercies, 
Whom  thou,  in  terms  so  bloody  and  so  dear,8 
Hast  made  thine  enemies  ? 

2  Inattentive  to  his  character  or  condition,  like  a  desperate  man. 

1  Dear  is  evidently  used  in  the  same  sense  here  as  in  Hamlet ! 
«  Would  I  had  met  my  dearest  foe  in  heaven  ere  I  had  seen  that 
day."  Tooke  has  shown  that  this  is  much  nearer  the  original 
sense  of  the  word  than  the  meaning  commonly  put  upon  it ;  dear 
twing  from  the  Anglo-Saxon  .verb  to  dere,  which  signifies  to  hurt, 
An  object  of  love,  any  thing  -th-it  we  hold  dear,  may  obviously 


438  TWELFTH    NIGHT,  ACT  V 

Ant.  Orsino,  noble  sir, 

Be  pleas' J  that  I  shake  off  these  names  you  give  ine 
Antonio  never  yet  was  thief,  or  pirate, 
Though,  I  confess,  on  base  and  ground  enough, 
Orsino's  enemy.     A  witchcraft  draw  me  hither : 
That  most  ingrateful  boy  there,  by  your  side, 
From  the  rude  sea's  enrag'd  and  foamy  mouth 
Did  I  redeem :  a  wreck  past  hope  he  was. 
His  life  I  gave  him,  and  did  thereto  add 
My  love,  without  retention  or  restraint, 
All  his  in  dedication :  for  his  sake 
Did  I  expose  myself,  pure  for  his  love, 
Into  the  danger  of  this  adverse  town ; 
Drew  to  defend  him,  when  he  was  beset : 
Where,  being  apprehended,  his  false  cunning 
(Not  meaning  to  partake  with  me  in  danger) 
Taught  him  to  face  me  out  of  liis  acquaintance, 
And  grew  a  twenty-years-removed  tiling, 
While  one  would  wink ;  denied  me  mine  own  purse, 
Which  I  had  recommended  to  his  use 
Not  half  an  hour  before. 

Vio.  How  can  this  be  1 

Duke.  When  came  he  to  this  town  1 

Ant.  To-day,  my  lord ;  and  for  three  months  before 
No  interim,  not  a  minute's  vacancy ; 
Both  day  and  night  did  we  keep  company. 

Enter  OLIVIA  and  Attendants. 

Duke.    Here  comes  the  Countess :   now  heaven 

walks  on  earth !  — 
But  for  thee,  fellow,  fellow,  thy  words  are  madness 

cause  us  pain,  distress,  or  anxiety,  and  is  a  natural  source  of  care 
and  solicitude  :  hence  the  word  came  to  be  used  in  the  opposite 
senses  of  hateful  and  beloved.  Perhaps  we  should  add,  thai 
dearth  and  dear  are  from  the  same  orginal  »• 


SU.  I.  OR    WHAT    YOl      WILL.  439 

Three  months  tliis  youth  hath  tended  upon  me ; 
But  more  of  that  anon.  —  Take  him  aside. 

OK.  What  would  my  lord,  but  that  he  may  not  have 
Wherein  Olivia  may  seem  serviceable  ?  — 
Cesario,  you  do  not  keep  promise  with  me. 

Via.  Madam  1 

Duke.  Gracious  Olivia,  — 

OK.  What   do   you  say,   Cesario  ?  —  Good   my 
lord,  — 

Via.  My  lord  would  speak,  my  duty  hushes  me. 

OK.  If  it  be  ought  to  the  old  tune,  my  lord, 
It  is  as  fat4  and  fulsome  to  mine  ear 
As  howling  after  music. 

Duke.  Still  so  cruel  1 

OIL   Still  so  constant,  lord. 

Duke.  What !  to  perverseness  ?  you  uncivil  lady, 
To  whose  ingrate  and  unauspicious  altars 
My  soul  the  faithfull'st  offerings  hath  breath'd  out, 
That  e'er  aevotion  tender'd !    What  shall  I  do  ? 

OK.  Even  what  it  please  my  lord,  that  shall  be- 
come him. 

Duke.  Why  should  I  not,  had  I  the  heart  to  do  it. 
Like  to  the  Egyptian  thief,  at  point  of  death, 
Kill  what  I  love  1  8  a  savage  jealousy, 

4  Dull,  gross. 

*  An  allusion  to  the  story  of  Thyamis,  as  told  by  Heliodorus  in 
his  Etniopics,  of  which  an  English  version  by  Thomas  Under 
downe  was  published  a  second  time  in  1587.  Thyamis  was  a 
native  of  Memphis,  and  chief  of  a  band  of  robbers.  Cha:iclea,  a 
Greek,  having  fallen  into  his  hands,  he  grew  passionately  in  love 
with  her,  and  would  have  married  her  :  but  being  surprised  by  a 
stronger  oand  of  robbers,  and  knowing  he  must  die,  he  went  to 
the  cave  where  he  had  secreted  her  with  his  other  treasures,  and, 
seizing  her  by  the  hair  with  his  left  hand,  with  his  right  plunged  a 
gword  in  her  breast ;  it  being  the  custom  with  those  barbarian* 
when  they  despaired  of  their  own  life,  first  to  kill  those  whom  thej 
held  most  dear,  *o  as  to  have  them  as  companions  in  the  otha 
world.  H 


440  TWELFTH    NIGHT,  ACT  V 

That  sometime  savours  nobly.  —  But  hear  me  this 
Since  you  to  non-regardance  cast  my  faith, 
And  that  I  partly  know  the  instrument 
That  screws  me  from  my  true  place  in  your  favour, 
Live  you,  the  marble-breasted  tyrant,  still ; 
But  this  your  minion,  whom  I  know  you  love, 
And  whom,  by  heaven  I  swear,  I  tender  dearly. 
Him  will  I  tear  out  of  that  cruel  eye, 
Where  he  sits  crowned  in  his  master's  spite.  — 
Come,  boy,  with  me :  my  thoughts  are  ripe  in  mis- 
chief: 

I'll  sacrifice  the  lamb  that  I  do  love, 
To  spile  a  raven's  heart  within  a  dove.          [Going. 

Vio   And  I,  most  jocund,  apt,  and  willingly, 
To  do  you  rest,  a  thousand  deaths  would  die. 

{Following 

OIL  Where  goes  Cesario  1 

Vio.  After  him  I  love, 

iMore  than  I  love  these  eyes,  more  than  my  life, 
More,  by  all  mores,  than  e'er  I  shall  love  wife : 
If  I  do  feign,  you  witnesses  above, 
Punish  my  life,  for  tainting  of  my  love ! 

OK.  Ah  me,  detested !  how  am  I  beguil'd ! 

Vio.  Who  does  beguile  you  ?  who  does  do  you 
wrong  1 

OIL  Hast  thou  forgot  thyself  1    Is  it  so  long  1  — 
Coll  forth  the  holy  father.  [Exit  an  Attendant. 

Duke.   [To  VIOLA.]     Come  away. 

OIL    Whither,   my    lord  ?  —  Cesario,    husband, 
stay. 

Dulce.  Husband  1 

OIL  Ay,  husband  :  Can  he  that  deny  t 

Duke.  Her  husband,  sirrah  ? 

Vio.  No,  my  lord,  not  I 

OIL  Alas,  it  is  the  baseness  of  thy  fear 


«C.  I.  OK    WHAT    YOU    WILL.  441 

That  makes  thee  strangle  thy  propriety  :  * 
F«ar  not,  Cesario  ;  take  thy  fortunes  up  : 
Be  that  thou  know'st  thou  art,  and  then  thou  art 
As  great  as  that  thou  fear'st.  —  O,  welcome,  father 

Re-enter  Attendant  and  Priest. 

Father,  I  charge  thee,  by  thy  reverence, 
Here  to  unfold  (though  lately  we  intended 
To  keep  in  darkness  what  occasion  now 
Reveals  before  'tis  ripe)  what  thou  dost  know 
Hath  newly  pass'd  between  this  youth  and  me. 

Priest.  A  contract  of  eternal  bond  of  love, 
Confirm'd  by  mutual  joinder  of  your  hands, 
Attested  by  the  holy  close  of  lips, 
Strengthen'd  by  interchangement  of  your  rings ; ' 
And  all  the  ceremony  of  tliis  compact 
Seal'd  in  my  function,  by  my  testimony : 
Since  when,  my  watch   hath  told  me,  toward  my 

grave 
I  have  travell'd  but  two  hours. 

Duke.  O,  thou  dissembling  cub !  what  wilt  thou  be. 
When  time  hath  sow'd  a  grizzle  on  thy  case  ?  8 
Or  will  not  else  thy  craft  so  quickly  grow, 
That  thine  own  trip  shall  be  thine  overthrow  1 
Farewell,  and  take  her ;  but  direct  thy  feet, 
Where  thou  and  I  henceforth  may  never  meet. 

Via.  My  lord,  I  do  protest,  — 

OIL  O  !  do  not  swear : 

Hold  little  faith,  though  thou  hast  too  much  fear. 

•  That  is,  suppress  or  disown  thy  proper  self;  deny  what  yon 
really  are.  H. 

7  In  ancient  espousals  the  man  received  as  well  as  gave  a  ring. 

•  The  skin  of  a  fox  or  rabbit  was  often  called  its  case.     So,  in 
Gary's  Present  State  of  England,  1626  :  "  Queen  Elizabeth  asked 
a  knight,  named  Young,  how  he  liked  a  company  of  brave  ladies. 
He  answered,  —  As  I  like  my  silver-haired  conies  at  home'  lb« 
catex  are  far  better  than  the  bodies." 


442  TWELFTH    NIGHT,  ACT  V. 

Enter  Sir  ANDREW  AGUE-CHEEK,  with  his  head  broke 

Sir  And.  For  the  love  of  God,  a  surgeon !  send 
one  presently  to  Sir  Toby. 

OIL  What's  the  matter  ? 

Sir  And.  He  has  broke  my  head  across,  and  ha* 
given  Sir  Toby  a  bloody  coxcomb  too  :  for  the  love 
of  God,  your  help !  I  had  rather  than  forty  pound, 
I  were  at  home. 

OIL  Who  has  done  this,  Sir  Andrew  ? 

Sir  And.  The  Count's  gentleman,  one  Cesario : 
we  took  him  for  a  coward,  but  he's  the  very  devil 
incardinate. 

Duke.  My  gentleman,  Cesario  1 

Sir  And.  Od's  lifelings!  here  he  is: — You  broke 
my  head  for  nothing ;  and  that  that  I  did,  I  was  set 
on  to  do't  by  Sir  Toby. 

Via.   Why  do  you  speak  to  me  ?   I  never  hurt  you  • 
You  drew  your  sword  upon  me,  without  cause ; 
But  I  bespake  you  fair,  and  hurt  you  not. 

Sir  And.  If  a  bloody  coxcomb  be  a  hurt,  you 
have  hurt  me :  I  think  you  set  nothing  by  a  bloody 
coxcomb. 

Enter  Sir  TOBY  BELCH,  drunk,  led  by  the  Clown,. 

Here  comes  Sir  Toby  halting ;  you  shall  hear  more : 

but  if  he  had  not   been  in  drink,  he  would  have 

tickled  you  othergates  9  than  he  did. 

Duke.  How  now,  gentleman !  how  is't  with  you  1 
Sir  To.  That's   all   one :   he   has   hurt   me,  and 

there's  the  end  on't.  —  Sot,  didst  see  Dick  Surgeon, 

sot  7 

Clo.  O  !  he's  drunk,  Sir  Toby,  an  hour  agone 

his  eyes  were  set  at  eight  i'the  morning. 

'  Olherways. 


SC.  1.  OR    WHAT    YOU    WILL.  443 

Sir  To.  Then's  he's  a  rogue,  and  a  passy-measures 
paynini :  I  hate  a  drunken  rogue. 

Oli.  Away  with  him  !  Who  hath  made  this 
havoc  with  them  ? 

Sir  And.  I'll  help  you,  Sir  Toby,  because  we'll 
be  dress'd  together. 

Sir  To.  Will  you  help  1  —  An  ass-head,  and  a 
coxcomb,  and  a  knave !  a  thin-fac'd  knave,  a  gull ' 

OK.  Get  him  to  bed,  and  let  his  hurt  be  look'd  to. 
[Exeunt  Clown,  Sir  To.,  and  Sir  AND. 

Enter  SEBASTIAN. 

Seb.  I  am  sorry,  madam,  I  have  hurt  your  kins- 
man ; 

But,  had  it  been  the  brother  of  my  blood, 
I  must  have  done  no  less,  with  wit  and  safety. 
You  throw  a  strange  regard  upon  me,  and  by  that 
I  do  perceive  it  hath  offended  you : 
Pardon  me,  sweet  one,  even  for  the  vowa 
We  made  each  other  but  so  late  ago. 

Duke.  One  face,  one  voice,  one  habit,  and  two 

persons  ; 
A  natural  perspective,11  that  is,  and  is  not. 

10  Pavin,  derived  from  pavo,  a  peacock,  means  a  slow,  heavy 
dance,  such  as  a  drunken  man  might  be   supposed  to  perform. 
Passy-measures  is   a  corruption  of  passamezzo,  an    Italian   uame 
for  a  style  of  dancing  not  much  unlike  walking.     Sir  Toby  there- 
fore probably  moans  that  Dick  Surgeon,  when  overloaded,  went 
through  a  kind  of  slow,  half-walking  dance.     It  is  observable  that 
the  Knight  is  very  deep  in  the  science  of  dancing,  and  liquor  only 
helps  on  the  outcome  of  his  character.  H. 

11  A  perspective  formerly  meant  a  glass  that  assisted  the  sight 
in  any  way.     The  several  kinds  used  in  Shakespeare's  time  are 
enumerated  in  Scot's  Discoverie  of  Witchcraft,  1584,  where  that 
alluded  to  by  the  Duke  is  thus  described  :  "  There  be  glasses  also 
wherein  one  man  may  see  another  man's  image  and  not  his  own  " 
—  where  tliat  which  is,  is  not,  or  appears,  in  a  different  petition, 
another  thing. 


444  TWELFTH    NIGHT,  ACT  T 

Seb.  Antonio  !    O,  my  dear  Antonio  ! 
How  have  the  hours  rack'd  and  tortur'd  me, 
Since  I  have  lost  thee  ! 

Ant.  Sebastian  are  you  1 

Seb.  Fear'st  thou  that,  Antonio  T 

Ant.  How  have  you  made  division  of  yourself  1  — 
An  apple,  cleft  in  two,  is  not  more  twin 
Than  these  two  creatures.      Which  is  Sebastian  1 

OH.  Most  wonderful ! 

Seb.  Do  I  stand  there  1    I  never  had  a  brother , 
Nor  can  there  be  that  deity  in  my  nature, 
Of  here  and  every  where.     I  had  a  sister, 
Whom  the  blind  waves  and  surges  have  devoured.  — 
[  To  Vio.j   Of  charity,  what  kin  are  you  to  me  ? 
What  countryman  ?  what  name  ?  what  parentage  1 

Via.  Of  Messalirie  :  Sebastian  was  my  father ; 
Such  a  Sebastian  was  my  brother  too ; 
So  went  he  suited  to  his  watery  tomb : 
If  spirits  can  assume  both  form  and  suit, 
You  come  to  fright  us. 

Seb.  A  spirit  I  am,  indeed ; 

But  am  in  that  dimension  grossly  clad, 
Which  from  the  womb  I  did  participate. 
Were  you  a  woman,  as  the  rest  goes  even, 
I  should  my  tears  let  fall  upon  your  cheek, 
And  say  —  thrice  welcome,  drowned  Viola ! 

Vio.  My  father  had  a  mole  upon  his  brow. 

Seb.  And  so  had  mine. 

Vio.  And  died  that  day  when  Viola  from  her  birth 
Had  number'd  thirteen  years. 

Seb.  O,  that  record  is  lively  in  my  soul  1 
He  finished,  indeed,  his  mortal  act, 
That  day  that  made  my  sister  thirteen  years. 

Vio.  If  nothing  lets  to  make  us  happy  both, 
But  this  my  masculine  usurp'd  attire. 


*C.   I.  OR   WHAT    YOU    WILL.  445 

Do  not  embrace  me,  till  each  circumstance 

Of  place,  time,  fortune,  do  cohere,  and  jump, 

That  I  am  Viola  :   which  to  confirm, 

I'll  bring  you  to  a  captain  in  this  town, 

Where  lie  my  maiden  weeds  ;  by  whose  gentle  help 

I  was  preserv'd,  to  serve  this  noble  Count : 

Ail  the  occurrence  of  my  fortune  since 

Hath  been  between  this  lady,  and  this  lord. 

Seb.   [  To  OLI.]   So  comes  it,  lady,  you  have  been 

mistook ; 

But  nature  to  her  bias  drew  in  that. 
You  would  have  been  contracted  to  a  maid; 
Nor  are  you  therein,  by  my  life,  deceiv'd : 
You  are  betroth'd  both  to  a  maid  and  man. 

Duke.  Be  not  amaz'd  ;  right  noble  is  his  blood.  — 
If  this  be  so,  as  yet  the  glass  seems  true, 
I  shall  have  share  in  this  most  happy  wreck : 
[To  Vio.]     Boy,  thou  hast  said  to  me  a  thousand 

times, 
Thou  never  should'st  love  woman  like  to  me. 

Vio.  And  all  those  sayings  will  I  over-swear  ; 
And  all  those  swearings  keep  as  true  in  soul, 
As  doth  that  orbed  continent  the  fire 
That  severs  day  from  night. 

Duke.  Give  me  thy  hand ; 

And  let  me  see  thee  in  thy  woman's  weeds. 

Vio.    The    captain,  that  did  bring  me  first    on 

shore, 

Hath  my  maid's  garments  :  he,  upon  some  action, 
Is  now  in  durance  at  Malvolio's  suit, 
A  gentleman  and  follower  of  my  lady's. 

OH.    He  shall  enlarge  him :  —  Fetch  Malvolk 

hither : 

A  nd  yet,  alas  '  now  I  remember  me, 
They  say,  poor  gentleman,  he's  much  distract 


*4fi  TWELFTH    NIGHT,  ACT  V 

A  most  extracting'2  frenzy  of  mine  own 
From  my  remembrance  clearly  banish'd  his.  -• 

Re-enter  Clown,  with  a  letter. 
How  does  he,  sirrah  1 

Clo.  Truly,  madam,  he  holds  Belzebub  at  the 
stave's  end,  as  well  as  a  man  in  his  case  may  do. 
He  has  here  writ  a  letter  to  you :  1  should  have 
given  it  you  to-day  morning ;  but  as  a  madman's 
epistles  are  no  gospels,  so  it  skills  not  much13  when 
they  are  deliver'd. 

OIL  Open  it,  and  read  it. 

Clo.  Look  then  to  be  well  edified,  when  the  foo 
delivers  the  madman  :  —  [Reads.]  "  By  the  Lord, 
madam,"  — 

OIL  How  now  !  art  thou  mad  1 

Clo.  No,  madam,  I  do  but  read  madness  :  an 
your  ladyship  will  have  it  as  it  ought  to  be,  you 
must  allow  vox.*4 

OIL  Pr'ythee,  read  i'thy  right  wits. 

Clo.  So  I  do,  madonna ;  but  to  read  his  right 
wits,  is  to  read  thus :  therefore  perpend,1*  my  prin- 
cess, and  give  ear. 

OIL  [To  FABIAN.]  Read  it  you,  sirrah. 

Fab.  [Reads.]  By  the  Lord,  madam,  you  wrong  me,  anc 
the  world  shall  know  it :  though  you  have  put  me  into 
darkness,  and  given  your  drunken  cousin  rule  over  me, 
yet  have  I  the  benefit  of  my  senses  as  well  as  your  lady 
ship.  I  have  your  own  letter  that  induced  me  to  the  sem- 
blance I  put  on ;  with  the  which  I  doubt  not  but  to  do 

"  That  is,  a  frenzy  that  drew  me  away  from  every  thing  bul 
.is  object. 

13  A.  common  expression  in  the  Poet's  time,  meaning,  —  it  sig- 
nifies not  much.  H. 

14  This  may  be  explained :  "  If  you  would  have  the  letter  read 
in  character,  you  must  allow  me  to  assume  the  voice  or  frantic  tone 
of  a  madman."  16  Consider. 


8C.  I.  OR   WHAT    YOU    WILL.  447 

myself  much  right,  or  you  much  shame.  Think  of  me  as 
you  please.  I  leave  my  duty  a  little  unthought  of,  and 
speak  out  of  my  injury.  The  madly-us'd 

MALVOLIO. 

OIL  Did  he  write  this  1 

Clo.  Ay,  madam. 

Duke.  This  savours  not  much  of  distraction. 

OK.  See  him  deliver'd,  Fabian :  bring  him  hither. 

[Exit  FABIAN; 
My  lord,  so  please  you,  (these  things  further  thought 

on,) 

To  think  me  as  well  a  sister  as  a  wife, 
One  day  shall  crown  the  alliance  on't,  so  please  you, 
Here  at  my  house,  and  at  my  proper  cost. 

Duke.   Madam,  I  am  most  apt  t'embrace  your 

offer. — 
[To  Vio.]  Your  master  quits  you ;  and,  for  your 

service  done  him, 

So  much  against  the  mettle  of  your  sex, 
So  far  beneath  your  soft  and  tender  breeding, 
And  since  you  call'd  me  master  for  so  long, 
Here  is  my  hand :  you  shall  from  this  time  be 
Your  master's  mistress. 

OH.  A  sister :  — you  are  she. 

Re-enter  FABIAN,  with  MALVOLIO. 

Duke.  Is  this  the  madman  ? 

OIL  Ay,  my  lord,  this  same  • 

How  now,  Malvolio  1 

Mai.  Madam,  you  have  done  me  wrong, 

Notorious  wrong. 

Oil.  Have  I,  Malvolio  1  no. 

Mai  Lady,  you  have.     Pray  you,  peruse  thai 

letter: 
You  must  not  now  deny  it  is  your  hand,  — • 


&48  TWELFTH    NIGHT,  ACT  V. 

Write  from  it,  if  you  can,  in  hand,  or  phrase,  — 
Or  say  'tis  not  your  seal,  nor  your  invention; 
You  can  say  none  of  this :  Well,  grant  it  then, 
And  tell  me,  in  the  modesty  of  honour, 
Why  you  have  given  me  such  clear  lights  of  favour 
Bade  me  come  smiling,  and  cross-garter'd  to  you, 
To  put  on  yellow  stockings,  and  to  frown 
Upon  Sir  Toby,  and  the  lighter  people  : 
And,  acting  this  in  an  obedient  hope, 
Why  have  you  suffer'd  me  to  be  imprison'd, 
Kept  in  a  dark  house,  visited  by  the  priest, 
And  made  the  most  notorious  geek,16  and  gull, 
That  e'er  invention  play'd  on  ?  tell  me  why. 

OIL  Alas  !  Malvolio,  this  is  not  my  writing, 
Though,  I  confess,  much  like  the  character : 
But,  out  of  question,  'tis  Maria's  hand. 
And  now  I  do  bethink  me,  it  was  she 
First  told  me  thou  wast  mad :  thou  cam'st  in  smiling, 
And  in  such  forms  which  here  were  presuppos'd 
Upon  thee  in  the  letter.     Pr'ythee,  be  content : 
This  practice  hath  most  shrewdly  pass'd  upon  thee , 
But,  when  we  know  the  grounds  and  authors  of  it, 
Thou  shalt  be  both  the  plaintiff  and  the  judge 
Of  thine  own  case. 

Fab.  Good  madam,  hear  me  speak  ; 

And  let  no  quarrel,  nor  no  brawl  to  come, 
Taint  the  condition  of  this  present  hour, 
Which  I  have  wonder'd  at.     In  hope  it  shall  not, 
Most  freely  I  confess,  myself,  and  Toby, 
Set  tliis  device  against  Malvolio  here, 
Upon  some  stubborn  and  uncourteous  parts 
We  had  conceiv'd  against  him  :  Maria  writ 
The  letter  at  Sir  Toby's  great  importance ; " 

18  Prom  the  Saxon  geac,  a  cuckoo,  and  here  meaning  a  fool,  B. 
1T  The  Poet  sometimes  uses  important  arid  inuoortunate  indis- 
criminately. "• 


BC.  L  OR    WHAT    YOU    WILL.  44I« 

In  recompense  whereof  he  hath  married  her. 
How  with  a  sportful  malice  it  was  folio  w'd, 
May  rather  pluck  on  laughter  than  revenge  ; 
If  that  the  injuries  be  justly  weigh'd, 
That  have  on  both  sides  pass'd. 

OIL   Alas,   poor  fool!    how  have  they  baffled 
thee  ! 

Clo.  Why,  "some  are  born  great,  some  achieve 
greatness,  and  some  have  greatness  thrown  upon 
them."  I  was  one,  sir,  in  this  interlude ;  one  Sir 
Topas,  sir;  but  that's  all  one.  —  "By  the  Lord, 
fool,  I  am  not  mad :  "  —  But  do  you  remember  ? 
"  Madam,  why  laugh  you  at  such  a  barren  rascal  t 
an  you  smile  not,  he's  gagg'd : "  And  thus  the 
whirligig  of  time  brings  in  his  revenges. 

MaL  I'll  be  reveng'd  on  the  whole  pack  of  you. 

[Exit. 

OIL  He  hath  been  most  notoriously  abus'd. 

Duke.  Pursue  him,  and  entreat  him  to  a  peace  :  — 
He  hath  not  told  us  of  the  captain  yet : 
When  that  is  known  and  golden  time  convents,18 
A  solemn  combination  shall  be  made 
Of  our  dear  souls.  —  Meantime,  sweet  sister, 
We  will  not  part  from  hence.  —  Cesario,  come, 
For  so  you  shall  be,  while  you  are  a  man ; 
But,  when  in  other  habits  you  are  seen, 
Orsino's  mistress,  and  his  fancy's  queen.      [Exeunt 

Clown  sings. 

When  that  I  was  and  a  little  tiny  boy, 
With  hey,  ho,  the  wind  and  the  rain, 

A  foolish  thing  was  but  a  toy, 
For  the  rain  it  raineth  every  day. 

18  That  is,  shall  serve,  agree,  make  convenient. 


450    TWELFTH    NIGHT,  OR    WHAT    YOU    WILL.    ACT  V 

But  when  1  cair.e  to  man's  estate, 
With  hey,  ho,  the  wind  and  the  rain, 

'Gainst  knaves  and  thieves  men  shut  their  gate, 
For  the  rain  it  raineth  every  day. 

But  when  I  came,  alas !  to  wive, 
With  hey,  ho,  the  wind  and  the  rain, 

By  swaggering  could  I  never  thrive, 
for  the  rain  it  raineth  every  day. 

But  when  I  came  unto  my  bed, 
With  hey,  ho,  the  wind  and  the  rain, 

With  toss-pots  still  had  drunken  head, 
For  the  rain  it  raineth  every  day. 

A  great  while  ago  the  world  begun, 
With  hey,  ho,  the  wind  and  the  rain, 

But  that's  all  one,  our  play  is  done, 
And  well  strive  to  please  you  every  day. 

[Exit, 


